


Jusqu'à la mort (Until death)

by Ebyru



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst and Humor, M/M, Sibling Incest, Slash, Wincest - Freeform, Wincestiel - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-10-31
Updated: 2011-10-31
Packaged: 2017-10-25 03:15:30
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 29,751
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/271129
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ebyru/pseuds/Ebyru
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean can't deal with his feelings for his brother, Sam, but when someone else is added to the mix, things start to get a little less confusing. All this happens while they are searching for their father, deal with a demon, and chase a shapeshifter.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Jusqu'à la mort (Until death)

**Author's Note:**

> This was betad by the lovely, and fantastical dohimdraco (tumblr). Visit her and ask her to read your work too, she is amazing at it.

Damn lines. _All_ of them. 

Those lines that separate the good from the bad, the right from the wrong, the real from the fiction, love from hate—they should all disappear.

\--------------------------------------------

When Dean is twenty, he knows he's crossed one of those lines already. 

The way Sam has changed from that sprout of a boy to this righteous man in a few short years, pulls at numerous strings inside of him. The strings are connected to each other, guiding his movements as well as his thoughts, along a path from one decision to another. 

Dean knows the courageous words, the purity that permeates Sam, pulls at the strings of his heart. He's proud beyond the ways of a brother. Almost as though he raised him all on his own. On the other hand, Sam's new-found stature pulls at the jealousy, the envy deep in his gut. He wishes he could be the bigger man—literally, and figuratively—but Dean isn't, and he struggles with trying to accept that his baby brother surpasses him in such a significant way.

Another string, a fragile thread that should only be linked to  _lovers_ , is tugged against his will, against all that is strong in Dean, when Sam finds courage the moments he cannot. It's a relief. It's undeniably freeing, but also guilt-inducing, when the burden of being all those innocents' saviour is lifted—even for an instant—by someone he can rely on himself. 

Sam is his brother, though, not a lover. 

Alas, that thread refuses to stop the pull when someone is worthy of grabbing hold of it, no matter whom it is. Despite whether it steers him towards dangerous ground or not, despite whether it's his  _blood or not_ , it drags at his insides slowly, stubbornly. 

Yet family, blood, Sam _is_.

He’s not just some distant cousin Dean sees once per year, but someone he's grown up with, someone he's taught and protected. Someone he believes in, trusts, comforts,  _and loves deeply_.

\--------------------------------------------

Dean recalls the times when he would stare, in silence, as Sam slept peacefully. And Dean would try to conjure up the feeling, the memory of the days when he could look at his brother without noticing how big his biceps were getting, or how lean his legs were, or how tanned his skin was. 

Then Sam turns over, facing the other way, and Dean watches the gentle rise and fall of his chest. Dean looks up at the ceiling, defeated, as he wonders what Sam feels like, what he _tastes_ like. And he suffers through the feeling, forcing his eyes to close.

He is nothing if not a sceptic when it comes to religion, but he prays to whoever will listen to steal all of the imagery and the fantasies away, and replace them with pure, brotherly love. 

And then one day, his wish is granted. Sam leaves the nest, and goes off to Stanford.

\--------------------------------------------

Dean both curses and worships the days when Sam is away at school. 

He's lonely, definitely, but he's not in constant agony; he doesn't have to worry about leaning a bit too close, holding Sam a bit too tightly or for too long. He doesn't have to worry about that thin line being crossed, even if his body really could care less about the morals behind it.

It's hard, at first, to be apart from Sam for so long, to miss having his best, _his only friend_ , around. But then it gets easier, and his sinful thoughts and concerns start to dissipate. Dean just worries about the next town he'll investigate, the next case he'll solve, the next motel he'll sleep in, the next diner he'll eat at. 

Always, Dean looks forward to the next  _thing_  that will drag him as far away from the unnatural thoughts, and a step closer to his strings snapping back into their rightful positions.

But they never completely do.

\--------------------------------------------

When their father is missing, Dean doesn't think anyone else can help. He doesn't want anyone else to. And Sam is right there, after but a tad bit of convincing, ready to fight and research like he would be in the past, like he hasn't been gone for over a year. 

Just knowing that, just being around his (giant) little brother again, it tugs at that thread, that single one that should never be pulled on. So Dean has to man up. He has to be even tougher, even stronger than Sam so—at the very least—the other strings won't pull at his core, too.

When is anything that easy?

And, as though they were never apart, the familiarity is back. They read, drive, research, fight, eat, sleep, do everything together again. It's nice at first; it allows Dean to fall asleep in the motel room without worrying about what revengeful creature or human might break in. But eventually it starts to go sour when Sam's comfort with Dean has returned as well.  

He's back to showering with the door slightly ajar, back to walking out with just a towel on, back to sleeping half naked, but worst of all, back to touching Dean and looking at him—up to him—like nothing else in the world can take his place.

Dean's heart starts to ache; the thread drags what it wants and needs to the forefront of his skin, and most importantly, his mind. The thread pulls so hard he's worried it might actually break, which in turn might push him to do things, _lewd_  things, with his baby brother.

Luckily, Sam is oblivious—or perhaps nice—enough not to mention the turmoil he sees Dean going through.

\--------------------------------------------

Dean is dreaming, he has to be, because Sam would never kiss him so readily, so hungry for more. Only in his most taboo fantasies, only then, can he act out all that he wants to with his younger brother. And his body responds, unbeknownst to him, while he sleeps.

He's squirming, moaning, his fingers curling around the length below his thin pants as he dreams of Sam in front of him, kissing the minutes away, and above him, riding his cock like a sex-starved teenager, below him and entering him, reducing him to nothing more but a babbling mess. 

Dean strokes faster when his dream-self approaches climax, his breathing ragged and sporadic. Sam wakes up sometimes, sees his brother's hand sliding up and down his shaft, tries to pretend he doesn't, and turns over to resume some semblance of sleep. 

But one time, perhaps once too many, when Dean is whimpering louder than usual, louder than he can even _try_ to ignore, Sam climbs out of bed. 

Sam's hesitant at first, but who wouldn’t be. There’s the fear that Dean might wake up and call him every name that exists, and then disown him. So he waits for some kind of hint that his brother’s body is just as warmed up, just as willing to cross that line. He’s waiting for a good reason to go to Hell with Dean.

"Sam," Dean whispers. His eyes still screwed tightly shut. "Yes, _please_ ," And then he's moaning over and over, and Sam doesn't know why he didn't notice sooner.

Tentatively, his fingers slide the sheet down, revealing Dean's fingers already covered in the beginnings of ejaculate. Sam's cock throbs in his loose jogging pants at the sight, and it’s making him that much harder, that much braver to go through with this. Before he can chicken out and run away, pretend like he doesn't know anything again, Sam's fingers are wrapped around Dean's.

There's an element of realism in the dream, Dean notices, but he quickly throws the thought away when Sam starts riding him faster, their fingers intertwined on either side of the bed. His hips buck up into what he sees as being Sam's body, but in actuality it’s Sam’s long digits, curled around his own, aiding him for the very first time.

Dean is thrusting so fast into Sam's touch that he thinks he could come just from watching this, from seeing his older brother want this so greedily. Perhaps he could come from the thought of how bad he wants this to happen when they’re both awake, aware.

Back in the dream, Sam's warning his brother, repeating how close he is, too close, and tightens around Dean after a few seconds of bliss. The friction is so perfect and warm that his vision blurs, and he's coming hard inside his  _damn_  brother for the umpteenth night of wet dreams in a row.

Dean growls slightly, but doesn't vocalize his climax as loudly in reality as he does in his make-believe land where it’s okay to fuck your brother. In reality, however, Sam is breathing heavily, his face wrinkling in horror, in disbelief, as he climbs off the bed. The conversation about their dysfunctional relationship is long overdue, especially with his palm and Dean’s stomach now soiled. 

Retreating to the bathroom with nothing left to do but deal with his own erection, Sam puts off ‘the talk’ for another night.

Sam feels dirty, vile even, when he uses the same slick fingers to grab his own length and palm his erection with nothing but want, want and more _want_ on his mind. It's so good, so fucking amazing, that it doesn't take long before his own come is mixing in with Dean's leftovers on his fingers.

He's panting, his skin slightly sweat slicked, as the breathless feeling washes over and away from him, and he’s almost back to normal. Almost.  When the delirious aching in his stomach is gone, when he stops replaying what just happened with Dean over and over, his logic is back.

Frantic, Sam tries to figure out how someone could give someone else—his brother in this case—a hand job knowing that the person wasn't awake at the time. He was fully aware of his actions, but Dean was just dreaming. That witty, hard-headed, brave man was just voicing out a dream, not an aspiration of his. Who really wants to have a sibling jerking them off?

The guilt strikes him harder than he expects it to. And he's not sure which part is worse; the incest or the rape.

Turning the tap on, Sam washes his hands and (now) spent cock with a dash of warm water. The springs of the cheap mattress creak as he winces at the heat of the water, the sound being the cause for his brother’s rude awakening. Dean shifts in bed slowly, scrubbing his eyes, realizing too late that he just wiped a hand full of spunk on his face. He looks over at the bed next to him, and discovers, to his dismay, that Sam is awake and will probably notice the  _accident_. 

Sam hears mumbling coming from outside the bathroom, so he pushes the door open silently, and peeks through the crack. Dean is sitting up, clearly waiting to use the bathroom from the angle his legs are crossed in. His eyes look shut but Sam knows better. Probably knows himeven better than he _should_ right now.

He turns off the light, running across the room, and gets to his bed in one swift motion, before Dean can notice he’s half hard –again.

Meanwhile, Dean rushes into the bathroom, happy that Sam didn't notice his dilemma, and closes the pushes the door closed, latching it securely. They both exhale—neither conscious of the fact they were holding their breath—when they believe they've dodged a bullet.

" _Son of a bitch_!" 

Dean’s mishap was voiced a bit too loudly earlier when Sam was cleaning himself off, so he got the gist of it. His big brother wasn't being as quiet as he thought he was—perhaps because of his drowsiness. He would never tell Dean that he knew, or worse, that he helped in creating the mess, though. 

What you don’t know can’t hurt you.

  
Sam chuckles at Dean—still cursing under his breath—before rolling over to sleep, keeping his hands away from his pants. 

\--------------------------------------------

There's a strange distance between them. It’s uncomfortable, for either of them, when they stand too close or hold eye contact for more than two seconds. 

Sam won't say anything, he _can't_. Dreams are private places where people are free to live out their most desired moments. Unfortunately, sometimes our subconscious decides what it wants us to dream about on its own.  

Those times, it turns into a cruel control-freak (like a trickster), that toys with the darkest parts of yourself, forcing you into a world where you can't exert free will. And aside from your imagination being kind of masochistic (what with all the torment it puts you through), it can drop something on your lap you don't want there—literally. 

Sam thinks the second type of mind-fuck (literally) is what’s happening to Dean; there’s nothing else that can explain it.

Dean is whimpering, whining in his sleep like a baby having a nightmare, but Sam knows better than to fall for it twice. He knows that he knows better. Then, Dean’s hand slips into his boxers, and he unknowingly kicks the blanket out of the way like he’s practically leaving an invitation.

Sam rolls over, covering his ears with his pillow, set on getting their relationship back to something considerably normal. Not that they really were normal in the past. But if anything could make them more awkward than they already are, it’s either Sam telling Dean he helped him jerk off, or to wake him up and tell him to stop moaning his name.

If revealed at the same time, those confessions might even cause Dean’s head to implode (or maybe he’s been on too many cases lately, and his imagination is running rampant).

But Dean—or at least his dreaming self—won’t have any of that, and Sam swears Dean is louder than he usually is. He can still hear his name being called across the room, through his goddamn pillow, and it’s taking every fiber of self-restraint, every ounce of love he has for his brother, to not scream out ‘stop fucking saying my name if you don’t want my help!’

That would only make their situation worse in the end, Sam ponders solemnly.

The noises coming from the other bed, Dean’s bed, start getting more frantic. Sam thinks it must mean Dean is close, so it’s okay to look at the last moments of bliss. He’s not touching this time, at least. It’s just a little peek; it can’t do any harm, especially since Dean is still sleeping through his pleas and calls for Sam.

Dean suddenly stops stroking, but his soft moans continue. They turn into fucking _loud-as-sin whimpers_ , and Sam is almost sure they’ll be kicked out of the motel room if he doesn’t think of a solution, and fast. The neighbours are already grumbling, he can hear them through the paper thin walls.

Sam is left with two options to consider: one he can wake up Dean, and end up having an even more uncomfortable relationship than they’ve had for the past week, or two, he can help out his big brother—again—soothing his cries by shushing them and tugging him to release. Either way, they would avoid having to drive around looking for another vacant room at two in the morning.

Against all that is still good and pure (and obviously immorality-free) inside Sam, he chooses the latter option.

Sam’s standing before he even processes that he’s decided to go through with the lesser of two evils (which might actually be the worse of two evils, but he’s too far gone to care). When he leans on the bed, his weight is tipping the closer side towards him, and it creaks, loudly. Dean doesn’t even budge in his sleep—for which Sam is thankful—unless you consider the rutting against the sheets that he’s been doing ever since his hand strayed from his boxers.

Continuing on his quest for—well—sleep for one, Sam edges closer, one leg crossed under him. There’s sweat forming all over Dean’s forehead, but he fights the urge to wipe it away, afraid that one, simple touch will be enough for Dean to wake up from his sex-filled slumber. The bed creaks again when he leans in gradually closer, trying to slide his hand in his brother’s boxer shorts.

Everything about that sentence, that thought, sounds so wrong to his ear. But the way his fingers search and find what they want so easily, it can only be right.

As though his body is moving of its own accord, Sam’s fingers are suddenly down Dean’s boxers, stroking him back to full hardness. Though Dean would probably never admit it when he’s awake, his body appreciates the attention; the frantic sounds turn into soft moans. The whimpers don’t reduce but multiply in number, but Sam doesn’t honestly care as long as the neighbours have stopped complaining.

The angle is weird, what with the knee beneath him falling asleep, and he can’t seem to stroke as quickly as he’d like to due to the fabric of the boxers creating some type of blockade, but those details aside it actually feels kind of..nice, Then—and he can’t believe he’s getting into it—his lips cracking from keeping his own sounds of pleasure down, he continues stroking, faster now, and the angle still is not right, so he tugs Dean’s boxers down with his free hand, just  enough to jerk the length properly.

Dean must really like how it feels because his hips thrust into each wrist movement, and he’s dropping Sam’s name like it’s the only word he knows how to say in his language. It’s encouraging, Sam thinks proudly, and he’s dipping his head close even before he acknowledges it, licking a trail over Dean’s collarbone, whispering for him to quiet down.

Dean’s mind is filled with nothing but Sam once again. Sam thrusting into him, being thrust into, sucking, licking, _fucking_. It’s all Sam, all the time, in his dreams, and he can’t rid himself of the feeling that there is some truth to what he’s experiencing, some realness to the tightening in his chest.

Sam is stroking faster, nearing his own version of insanity because of his brother’s desperate pleas. At the same time, Dean’s dream is coming to a close, fleeting, but the pressure his body is holding onto just won’t leave. Dean knows something is wrong then, and fights against himself. Blinking the sleep away, Sam the first thing in his line of vision, Dean assumes he is still asleep.

Denial is a big part of being a Winchester.

Sam doesn’t notice the change in breathing, though he should, and kisses Dean on the lips once, twice, tentatively. Dean thinks—no—he _knows_ he can’t still be sleeping because that press of lips is too innocent, too soft and not raunchy enough to be from his dream. His eyes snap open, and he’s coming all over Sam’s hand before he has time to stop his body from reacting how it wants to.

Sam pulls his hand away, standing promptly, the warm liquid coating his fingers in a way that makes him feel like he belongs in some gay porno. Except in this movie, Dean is unsuspecting and unhappy about his hand job, or so it seems from the expression painted across his face.  

The word ‘rape’ rings in his ears, through his mind, and it repeats like a broken record. His brain already overlooked the part about incest.

“What—“ Dean starts, with an angry crease to his brows. But then his eyes dart to Sam’s hand, and his look softens, though the disgust is still too present. “—Oh god, Sammy.”

Sam grabs a tissue and wipes his hand off, ignoring how inappropriate that nickname is when he’s harder than plywood and has spunk all over his fingers.

“I—We were gonna get kicked out,” Sam starts, like that somehow explains jerking your big brother off. Then, he adds without thinking, “You’re the one who kept calling my name like a banshee in heat!”

Opening his mouth, then closing it, then turning his gaze away, Dean finally says, “You weren’t supposed to know. You weren’t supposed to do that, either.”

And it’s like a ton of bricks just fell on Sam because in that moment this sick, agony pierces through him, and he feels nothing but regret. Why did he think it was okay to take advantage of Dean just because he was dreaming about Sam? That was like a mailman keeping someone’s mail just because they weren’t home when he passed by. (Okay, that was a terrible analogy, but it dulled the hurt for a second.)

Sam just nods, for a long time, Dean notices. They don’t make eye contact when Sam goes into the bathroom to wash his hands off.

Dean feels like he should say something, anything really, so that they can get back to their brotherly love, or at least move on. But the words don’t come out of his throat, despite the yearning for them to, and Sam is back in bed in a flash, hiding under his blanket and pillow. It doesn’t seem logical—and it probably isn’t—but Dean isn’t even upset with Sam anymore. He’s mad at himself for putting his little brother in that position, forcing him into such a small corner that he’d rather just commit incest rather than wake him up.

It’s unbelievably petty getting cross over a dream, but it’s disturbing and wrong to have those dreams in the first place.

Dean just turns on his side too; he falls asleep when Sam’s breathing is nothing but a low rumble, a soothing sound to his ears. Even now, it takes Sam’s help for him to feel normal, feel like he’s safe again.

\--------------------------------------------

 

The alarm on his phone is ringing repeatedly, annoyingly. That can only mean one thing, a reality that he dreads to admit…Sam didn’t accidentally make too much noise and scare him out of sleep.

 

Dean is suddenly wide awake, and searching around the room with what little his eyes can pick up. Sadly, his little brother is nowhere to be found. The presence that makes him feel guarded at night, the laugh that warms his heart, the strength that keeps him standing, everything about Sam that he can’t find in anyone else, is gone. 

 

Getting up with the little energy he can muster, he shuffles over the few steps to Sam’s bed, and places his hand on it. It’s cold, with no warmth even left lingering on it. Kind of like the words he let fall from his mouth last night.

 

Dean can’t hold his limbs up anymore, and falls on his brother’s bed, his head in his hands. There’s a rustle of paper where he’s sitting, and he lifts his hip slightly to pull it out from underneath his weight.

 

_|| I think this is as good time as any for us to split up for a while._

_Of course we’re still brothers, and I still love you,_

_but until we find dad, I don’t want to concentrate on anything else._

_Take care,_

_Sam     ||_

 

Dean doesn’t move for a long time, just clinging onto the paper like it’s all he has left to keep him together. If he’s fighting back the tears, he doesn’t realize it until he gets to the Impala and catches a glimpse of his reflection—without Sam next to him.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Cases are all he has, just like before, and he does them without thinking, without more emotion than he needs. There’s always a monster causing havoc, a call being made to Bobby, a piece of pie baked fresh from the oven, a bed with a lack of personality and familiarity, a waitress slipping him her number, a life-or-death situation. And it starts all over again the following week.

 

Sam makes sure to keep in touch. A note here and there left with Bobby, a text message once in a while, but it’s not the same, not satisfying. There’s not nearly enough affection between them anymore.

 

If Dean is drinking more than he ever used to, there’s no one around to point out that fact or complain.

 

\--------------------------------------------

Then one time it’s not a monster wreaking havoc, at least not outwardly. She would be considered beautiful if she wasn’t so evil. Dean doesn’t need to call Bobby because he knows what she is, can’t get to the crappy dinner because she has him tied to a chair, can’t sleep because he’s afraid to, can’t flirt because she knows better, but he’s so close to death this time it scares him a little.

Meg, she says her name is in passing, as if he should already know it.

“What do you want,” Dean spits the blood onto the floor, next to his foot. “Meg, or whatever.”

“Aw. Now aren’t you the sweetest thing,” Meg cups his chin gently, before backhanding him. “I don’t like repeating myself.”

Dean snorts, looking at her through lidded eyes, gaze colder than winter air. Neither does he, but he doesn’t say that. “My soul, huh,” He tries to look down on her, failing, because she’s standing above him. “Or what?”

Meg chuckles like it’s the dumbest question in the world, which it probably is considering he knows the answer like he knows the lines of his hand, or the redness in his eyes since Sam’s been gone. But he has to stall for time; his knife slicing through the rope at his left wrist quietly. That is, if he plans to warn Sam, or at least say goodbye properly.

“Sam,” She hisses with pleasure. “If you don’t give me your soul, I will take Sam’s.” Meg sits down on Dean’s lap, leaning in to whisper at the shell of a bloodied ear. “And even in Hell we know about your obsession with each other.”

The knife falls from his fingers with a clang, and Meg doesn’t bat an eye. She must have known from the start but not cared, Dean decides. Instead, she climbs off of Dean’s lap and lies down on the bed—where Sam would most likely sleep—and it’s more disturbing than anything she’s done to him so far.

“Alright,” It comes out lower than expected; his throat not willing to let him admit defeat.

Meg pushes two fingers behind an ear. “I’m sorry?” She props up on the bed, her legs crossed. “I didn’t catch that.”

The rope is loose enough that he can escape, but what’s the point? “I said alright,” Dean looks at the pile of postcards from Sam he keeps near his wallet. “You can have my soul if his stays intact.”

Meg sighs happily, too happily, and rubs her palms together. “Great doing business with you, Dean-o. I can’t wait ‘til you see Hell.”

\---------------------------------------------

 

A day, she tells him. Dean has a day to do whatever he wants before Meg returns to collect his soul. That’s more than enough time. That’s certainly more than he expected her to give him, and he wonders if it’s because she has a thing for him and Sam.

But that’s beside the point.

Dean calls Bobby, but there’s no answer, and it’s just his damn luck. So, despite how much he hates talking to answering machines because he feels weird and vulnerable, he leaves a message. It’s a long, detailed message saying where he’s going, obviously not the duration of time, and why he accepted.

When he’s done, he pays the motel clerk, calls the waitress who wanted him so badly, bangs her brains out quick and rough—because there is no love between them—and finally gets into the Impala.

There’s no point in trying to drive away because the deal has already been made, and Meg can now find him wherever he decides to go. So he just sits in his car, waiting. Dean tells himself perhaps he wasn’t going to live long anyway, wasn’t going to have but another year before some ghoul or skinwalker killed him.

It doesn’t really help.

Taking out the stash of postcards from Sam, he rereads them. That guy always had a way with words, he remembers fondly, drinking them in because he will never get to enjoy the sloppy handwriting again.

If this is punishment for pushing Sam away when he should have been acting like an older brother and repairing their relationship, he understands. If this is punishment for not being able to cope with his own feelings, to admit that he’s sick and twisted, that he has a major problem, then that as well he understands.

Dean smiles as he reads the last of the postcards, a single tear warm as it slides down his cheek unnoticed. He wipes it away quickly, hiding it like he fought to keep his deep and resonating love for his brother under wraps. But this is it, he thinks: his final moments. It’s his final chance to be true to his heart.

 

And he still can’t do it.

 

None of that really matters though because Meg is at his car window, knocking as though she needs to.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

The scream is ripped all the way from his stomach, and it pierces through him like a dagger when it reaches his throat, tearing at the muscles there. He can’t stop it, as though it’s not his voice, and it’s driving him more insane than he thought he already was. But apparently he hadn’t hit bottom yet.

 

The sounds, his own sounds, persist and break through his vocal chords, leaving them raw and chaffed, until he can’t even fathom screaming anymore. His voice is long gone, but that’s more than he could ask for because he couldn’t bear to hear his own demise aloud any longer.

 

Then the piercing sounds aren’t wrenched from his gut as often, as loudly, and he starts to feel the tension easing up, slowly. Suddenly the strain is almost all gone, and he can begin to relax, to let go of the pain, because it’s slipping away faster than it came on. And it’s so surprising, so different than what he’s been feeling for all those months, he doesn’t know how he should react. Neither does his body it seems, as it just collapses under him.

 

The flutter of wings is all he hears for long moments. Dean starts praying to whatever god will hear him out. He prays that the torment is officially over, that he can just disappear, rather than face another minute of his soul being ripped out of him only to be carefully placed back in. He prays for his brother’s wellbeing, for Bobby’s. He prays that they found his father in one piece. But most of all, he prays that he can see them all once again, even if it’s just one last time, even if it’s up in Heaven.

 

And when he wakes up in a coffin with nothing but a lighter, he wonders what he did in his life to deserve having his prayers answered.

\--------------------------------------------

 

 

It doesn’t take long for him to break out of that wooden prison, to be free at long last, and breathe in fresh, polluted air, like it’s the best thing he’s ever inhaled.

 

And just like that, he’s back to life. Doesn’t know why, doesn’t know how, but none of that matters if it means he’s not in Hell. And then it hits him: Sam. Either that kid was dumb enough to take his place, or he found someone dumb enough to try and raise him from that eternity of flames and suffering.

 

Dean’s kneejerk reaction then is to call Bobby and make sure Sam is okay.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

There’s a phone booth near the road where he climbed out of the ground. And it’s almost like he was meant to wake up there, meant to come back to life at that spot, because the area isn’t half as secluded as he expected it to be. Dean doesn’t bother looking for change in his pockets and dials the familiar number, calling collect.

 

The call takes longer than it should, slight irritation getting under his skin, especially since he is covered in dirt and really wants a shower. But he’s so relieved to hear a familiar voice again, and best of all, good news, that he ignores the want, need, desperation for cleanliness.

 

“Yeah,” Bobby says reluctantly, like he still doesn’t trust Dean after all the quizzing he put him through. “Sam’s alive and kickin’.” He sighs loudly. “So’re you, it seems. No word from your father though.”

 

Dean nods slowly at the last part, forgetting he’s on the phone and that Bobby can’t see him for a moment. “Yeah, I figured.” If John didn’t want to be found, he wouldn’t let even his sons find him. He sighs too. “But yeah, I’m alive. Not sure why though.”

 

Bobby tells him that Sam tried a million and one ways to bring Dean back, but failed each time. If the outcome hadn’t been positive, maybe he wouldn’t be smiling on his end, but he is, despite his brother’s fruitless attempts. Before he hangs up, Dean tells Bobby to find a way to convince Sam that he’s back—really back, soul and all—so that when they get back together to find their father it won’t be all fists and slashing like he expects it to be.

 

“Good to hear your voice son,” Bobby’s voice hitches on the last word, like he never expected to use that word for more than one person again.

 

Hanging up after a short moment, he can hardly breathe. Relief, like a wave, courses through him, and washes away any anguish he felt when he first surfaced. Now that he knows Sam isn’t in Hell, and of course that Bobby is fine, Dean starts to feel a little more like his old self. And he kind of wants a piece of pie, badly. But there’s something more important to take care of first.

 

If Bobby and Sam didn’t bring him back, who did?

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Dean walks for what feels like miles (maybe he was in a pretty secluded area after all) before he finds an abandoned gas station, just waiting to be taken advantage of. He breaks the glass of the window without hesitation; the grumbling in his stomach like a lion’s roar as he thinks about all the pie he can eat again.

 

Peering around to make sure no one heard the glass shatter, or that there are no alarms to catch him off guard, he makes his way inside, stealthily. It’s barren for a gas station. There are a few water bottles, which Dean stuffs into his jean pockets, but immediately pulls out when he realizes there’s a plastic bag on the counter. (And did he think walking with water bottles shoved in his pants would work, really?)

 

Grabbing the bag in one fluid motion, Dean fills it with the water bottles, some chocolate bars, a few adult magazines—busty Asians, his favourite—and other various snacks. Satisfied with his scavenger’s hunt, he heads toward the door, making sure once again that there are no cameras or people around to get him in trouble. There happens to be, on the other hand, a radio buzzing by itself in a forgotten corner of the gas station.

 

Dean feels thankful for the low hum of it.

 

It’s a familiar sound, one that he appreciates, since it breaks through the silence of the constant questions his mind is asking itself. But then the low hum gets slightly louder, and Dean turns slowly, staring at it questioningly. The hum turns into a buzzing that grates at his nerves. The buzzing turns into a weird constant rasp, like someone is wheezing, lungs searching for air. Dean covers his ears, eyeing the radio for answers, but it just gets louder and more painful. Then it’s suddenly a high pitch squeal, and it takes all of Dean’s energy not to fall to the floor, curled in a fetal position, waiting for sudden death.

 

It stops all at once, silence. Dean’s almost afraid to uncover his ears if it means facing that noise without protection.

 

“Here,” A hand is thrust into his line of sight. Then there’s ruffling like the sound of a trench coat, and a man is suddenly kneeling in front of him. But Dean isn’t sure if it’s truly a man or not. “I can give you a hand.”

 

Dean takes the hand, grabbing his bag of supplies with his other arm. “Thanks,” Just from looking at the smaller man, he knows there’s something different about him, something he can’t quite put his finger on. There’s something about him that he recognizes also. “Did you hear that, just now?”

 

“My apologies,” It’s low and rugged, deeper than he expects it to be. It’s even deeper than his voice. “I thought you were one of the chosen few who could handle my real voice.”

 

“So, wait,” Dean puts his hand out, as if buying time. “That high pitch screech, that was you?”

The man, monster—whatever he is—nods slowly. “I’m sorry if it hurt you. I am Castiel.”

 

There’s definitely something about him that rings a bell. And he’s staring into his eyes now, trying to figure out what exactly it is. Not realizing he’s still holding the slighter man’s hand while searching him, he pulls away abruptly. “I’m Dean—“

  
“Winchester. I know who you are,” Castiel interrupts dryly, tries smiling soon after. “I’m the one who raised you from perdition.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

 

And just like that he’s involved with an angel—of all things—because apparently he is too valuable to let rot in Hell. Well he was left in Hell for four months—which felt like 40 years down there, but who’s counting?—but that was as long as ‘they’ would leave him there.

 

Dean is doubtful at first, logically—since he has a hard time even believing in God—but he asks the questions that are most prominent in his mind, and Castiel seems honest enough that he accepts this weird situation he’s found himself in

 

“What’s this thing—this mark—on my arm?” Dean says in a tone he hopes is neutral, and doesn’t reveal how curious and turned on he is by it. He has his kinks just like anyone else.

 

“My handprint you mean?” Castiel answers, his eyes skittering over it briefly. “It’s from when I raised you from Hell. It is not permanent.”

 

“Oh,” he replies, coolly. Though the thought of disappearing doesn’t make his heart sink in his chest. “That’s good ‘cause I don’t like seeming like I’m some angel’s bitch.”

 

But that’s a lie because, deep down, it’s quite the opposite.  He likes the upraised skin there; the way it’s jagged and rough, but still soft. He likes that he has proof there’s someone on his side in Heaven, someone willing to fight for him (even if he was ordered to).

 

Admittedly, when he first noticed it, sliding his fingers over it gingerly in case it still hurt, it reminded him of those brands farmers put on cows, and it instantly turned his stomach. Then, as his relationship with Castiel deepened these past few days, he grew fond of it, just as he had the angel. And surprisingly quickly, too. Sometimes, he drifted off into his imagination when he stared at it too long, remembering the moment all of the cries and pain ceased, and reminiscing over the incredible lightness he felt when Castiel lifted him from the chains. He’s still extremely grateful for that, for being brought back to Sam.

 

But that’s way too sappy to say out loud, it’s even too sappy for him to want to think about.

 

Castiel is waiting, trying to read Dean’s mind to figure out if what he said was true or not, but then the thought is disappearing, being replaced with another. Dean smirks at the angel, having figured out his next question.

.

Raising an eyebrow, almost challengingly, he speaks. “So Heaven wants me alive,” Dean blinks once, twice, then narrows his eyes. “Because I will help save billions of people from the Devil?”

 

“Exactly,” Castiel’s gaze doesn’t falter, just holds Dean’s until he has to look away because of how uncomfortably long it lasts.

 

Castiel doesn’t look like anything special really, besides his unnaturally blue eyes. If Dean didn’t know better, he would think he was just getting tricked by some douchenozzle in a snazzy jacket with a deep voice. But something about Castiel seems genuine, like he couldn’t lie even if he wanted to.

 

“So,” Dean leans against the door frame of a bathroom—which doesn’t belong to him, but to the motel of course—crossing his arms over his chest. “I have to wait for Heaven to call in a favour since I owe them?”

 

Castiel nods. It’s a slight gesture that you’d miss if you blinked. It’s almost like he hates the answer he has to give, but it’s his duty, and it’s the truth. Or maybe Dean is looking too far into it when this angel probably doesn’t even know how to control his human vessel—yeah he asked him why he was so scrawny already—properly or fully yet.

 

Clearing his throat, he adds to the thought without letting too much of his disagreement slip through. “But until then,” Dean shuts the light and walks to the bed—still leaving one free for Sam—and dropping onto it like a log. “I can just live like I did before, right?”

 

Even in spite of his terrible interpersonal skills, Castiel knows that’s not really a question, but an observation. “That is correct,” he doesn’t move any part of his face, which makes him appear even more doll-like. “You can do as you did before, but I will be guarding you.”

 

“Okay—wait—what?” That, evidently, threw him through a loop. Being freed from Hell, that was fine. Being told he had to pay back his dues, also okay. But having to be watched over by a robotic, awkward angel in a borrowed meat suit? That was going to be weird, very much so.

 

“Don’t worry,” Castiel sits in a chair as though trying it out for the first time, which he probably is, Dean realizes. (Do they have chairs in Heaven?) “I will not always be here. You will have moments of privacy when I am dealing with matters that don’t involve you.”

 

Well that sure is nice of him. He’ll let Dean be alone when he’s busy up there. It doesn’t exactly sound like a two-way street, but it’s better than nothing. “Fine,” he sighs, rubbing his eyes with exasperation. “Just, lemme get some sleep right now.”

 

“As you wish,” Castiel stares at Dean. “I will be here for the moment.”

 

There’s a burning into his skull, and he knows that can only be one thing. Castiel is staring him down again. “And stop staring!” Dean snaps, when it’s finally too much to ignore. “I can’t sleep with you watching me like a hawk. Besides, I doubt anyone or anything even knows I’m alive yet.”

 

And the silence that follows convinces Dean that Castiel is nodding again, knowingly, but also uselessly, because his eyes are closed and he can’t see the angel doing it. Somehow it doesn’t bother him though, and he’s falling asleep with a smirk smeared across his lips.

\--------------------------------------------

 

Bobby keeps his word, and lets Sam know about Dean’s return as soon as the younger sibling drops by his house for supplies. It’s only a few days after he received that phone call when Sam shows up, so the emotions are still raw and bubbling up inside of him.

 

“Sam,” Bobby places a hand on his shoulder, to either steady himself or the younger man. He’s not sure who is more likely to fall over. “Your brother, Dean, he’s back.”

 

Seconds pass by in a flash, minutes even faster. Sam can’t stop his brow from furrowing, can’t get his mouth to shut so flies don’t use his tongue as a bed, and just stares at Bobby incredulously. “But I—he—I tried _everything_.” It sickens him how desperate the words sound, as though he’s not happy his brother is back, as though he’s not grateful.

 

“Yeah, well,” Bobby pats Sam on the shoulder a few times. He doesn’t look like he’s going to faint or fall over, so Bobby moves away. “He’s back thanks to Heaven. Thanks to an angel.” He turns to sit at his desk, where he belongs, really. “Now is a good time as any to go see him.”

 

Sam nods pensively. “You’re right, yeah,” He heads toward the door when Bobby calls out to him.

 

“You should finish up whatever you were doing first. “ he says as he pours himself a glass of brown, cheap alcohol, sipping at it. “And don’t forget to breathe, kid.”

 

\--------------------------------------------

Sam takes longer to finish up a simple job involving a ghost that he knows he should. There are so many things swimming around his mind restlessly. He does, however, succeed at completing it without much of a struggle, and packs up his stuff once back at the motel.

 

The drive is long to get to the city Dean is in, and it gives him plenty—bordering on too much—time to think about everything Bobby told him. The most important detail is that Dean is back, healthy, and not due to a deal with a demon. Thank the Heavens, literally. Angels, though obscure, and inexistent to them until recently, are definitely better allies to have around than demons.

 

 He thinks, hopes, that is the case at least.

 

It’s so dark out that he’s afraid to crash; his brother always the one to do the night time driving. For the past few months, he’d always just found a place to sleep until daybreak to avoid this kind of happening. But there is no time for that now. Not after thinking he lost his brother without conveying his true feelings, or at least apologizing for running off like a coward.

 

Led Zeppelin comes on the radio—that he didn’t even know he had on—and it’s like a sign, a reminder that he’s going to be hearing a lot more of that when he finally reunites with his brother. Sam smiles as his fingers strum along to the song he’s heard so many times.

 

He is going to take it in steps. That’s what his heart is saying, and his mind agrees.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Dean is taking a nap when Sam knocks on the door, Castiel having kept him up for a while with his invasive staring.  It’s like trying to sleep through an irritating, constant ticking at the back of your skull, one that doesn’t go away, no matter how good you are at ignoring things. Needless to say, Castiel feels bad enough for being the cause that he doesn’t bother waking Dean up, and answers the door himself.

 

Sam stares in silence, shifting nervously in the doorway until he finally finds his voice. “I think—um—Is Dean here?”

 

Castiel’s gaze softens, but doesn’t look elsewhere than directly into Sam’s eyes. “He is currently in a deep slumber. Come in, Sam.”

 

 _He knows my name_ , is the only thing his mind can come up with before he’s stepping past the smaller man. “Y-yeah. You--”

 

“I am Castiel, an Angel of the Lord.” Castiel closes the door softly, locking it like Dean had instructed him to before he passed out.

 

If Dean’s snoring is any indication, Castiel is a trustworthy friend, or a good protector at least. He never sleeps that deep, unless he’s around family or people like Bobby. Weight lifts from his shoulders then, weight he didn’t know he was carrying, and Sam turns to smile at Castiel.

 

“Thank you,” His outstretched hand is waiting, as Castiel looks down at it like it’s some strange creature.

 

Grabbing onto the hand firmly when Sam refuses to withdraw this action, his other hand placed almost too gently over the hold, Castiel finally smiles. “I assure you, I was just doing what was asked of me.” Sam blinks at this, confused. But Castiel ignores that emotion he doesn’t understand, and continues. “But you’re welcome, Sam Winchester.”

 

If he didn’t know better, Sam would swear his heart just skipped a beat at hearing his name said like that. This angel—Castiel—is so clearly pure-hearted, sincere, and yet so stern and all-knowing, that it’s impossible not to like him in that moment, then and there. Or at least, that’s what Sam will use as his excuse in the future.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

When Dean wakes up later in the morning that he usually does—that’s what having an angel as a bodyguard does to you—there’s not one, but two people sitting at the so-called kitchen table.  Sam is telling Castiel about some book he read, fiction probably, and Castiel is nodding as though it’s the best thing he’s ever heard.

 

Is that his default answer, his default look? Does he just politely nod, and seem genuinely interested in everything Earth-related? It’s not like it doesn’t make sense, really. Castiel is an angel, probably never even interacted with humans before having to become Dean’s protector. And now he has two odd, but very knowledgeable, brothers at his listening disposal.

 

Jealousy might be coiling around his heart from how much more expressive—if it can be called that—he is when Sam speaks, but he ignores it. Dean sits up in bed, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hands. Suddenly it’s not one, but two pairs of eyes on him, waiting with a purpose.

 

“Hey,” he slides off the blanket quickly, annoyed at how long he slept. “I don’t need two lost souls looking at me like that. I just got some sleep, okay?”

 

Sam makes it across the room in record time, dragging Dean in for a bone-cracking, lung-squeezing, breath-stealing hug. Even if that is mostly an exaggeration, the part about lacking air is becoming a fact, thanks to Sam not knowing his own monstrous strength. The scar tingles where Sam’s arm is wrapped around his.

 

“Bro,” Dean pushes Sam away gently. “I missed you too, but I need to breathe.”

 

When Sam’s eyes look like they’re welling with tears, Dean leans over to tell Castiel how much of a woman his brother is, but he’s gone. To tell the truth, it does make it easier to reconcile their differences if his ‘personal’ angel isn’t in the room watching.

 

“I’m so, so sorr—“ Sam starts, his gaze sweeping across the floor guiltily, then up to the spot where Dean is rubbing his arm.

 

“Don’t worry.” Dean pats his brother’s back, smiling like he means it. And he does. “I’m glad to be back too.”

 

Sam gets off the bed, settling his weight on the one across from Dean’s. He doesn’t ask about what was bothering him, what was on his arm, because he might become all maternal, and Dean hates that. He settles for a lighter topic.

 

“This one—” His fingers drag over the blanket lazily. “—is for me, right?”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, instantly wishing Castiel would come back, so he can drop Sam off the nearest cliff. “No, it’s for the angel who doesn’t sleep and keeps me up all damn night.”

 

The sarcasm is back, Sam thinks fondly. The sarcasm that Dean taught him so well, uses so well, is back. Dean is back. And he knows—this time—his heart does skip a beat.

 

“Speaking of him,” Sam tries not to sound like a rabid fan girl. Though he is almost certain he will be one in the future, if he isn’t one already. “What’s he like? Seems nice.”

 

Eyeing his brother for a moment, he stands up to stretch, his shirt lifting at one corner. “He’s fine,” he says nonchalantly. “Doesn’t sleep, doesn’t eat, doesn’t drink, doesn’t screw around.”

 

Now it’s Sam’s turn to roll his eyes. “He’s an angel, Dean.” He tries not to stare at the patch of skin in his line of sight. But it’s there, calling to him to be looked at. “What did you expect?”

 

That earns him a huff, then a snort. “For him not to be boring.”

 

But they both know deep down that’s not true. Castiel is just new to the world, new to them, and he’ll grow on them soon enough. Maybe sooner than they think.

\--------------------------------------------

 

Sam spends the next week trying to get to know Castiel, though it proves harder than you would think.

 

Every time Dean leaves the motel for longer than an hour, Castiel fidgets in his seat. That’s definitely something you don’t see an angel do, or at least Sam doesn’t expect to be a witness to. And it makes him seem oddly human. Sam takes that time, however, to distract the distraught man, asking him questions about Heaven, about his life, about his body—not like that—and gets short, concise replies in return.

 

Sam frowns, worrying his lip, trying to figure out why exactly Castiel’s answers seem so cold and distant.

 

“So your vessel,” Sam feels like he’s pulling teeth, like it’s an interrogation. “His name is Jimmy?”

 

Castiel holds his bouncing knee down, making the fidgeting stop by force. “Jimmy Novak.” He makes eye contact then, and Sam tries not to drown in the colour, the wonder of those eyes. They go much deeper than human eyes, he notes, can’t be because of anything except Castiel’s angelic soul inside.

 

Sam is staring, but Castiel is staring right back, so he doesn’t feel as bad as he would with his brother. It’s not like the angel really knows subtle concepts like flirting, anyhow. “Cas,” the nickname falls from his lips for the first time since he met him. He’s heard Dean say it so many times it just came naturally. “Do you hate me or something?”

 

Castiel looks away for a moment, like he’s thinking, then his gaze, stronger than ever, finds Sam’s again. “I don’t hate you, Sam.” He breathes out; his leg stops fidgeting finally. “I was told not to approach humans other than the one in my charge.” Eyes searching for the words, faltering even, he continues. “I—was specifically told to avoid creating a bond with anyone who could lead me off my path.”

 

If his tone wasn’t so innocent, his voice so low, Sam would be angry. If he didn’t look like a lost puppy, with his huge eyes and pink lips, Sam would be angry. If he didn’t save Dean from Hell, wasn’t an Angel of the Lord, was anyone but Castiel, Sam would be angry. But he’s Castiel, and he’s sweet and awkward, and doesn’t know how to deal with people—at all—so he just waves a hand, dismissing the statement.

 

Castiel is following orders, like soldiers do, and he doesn’t know better yet.

 

“That’s—it’s okay, Cas,” Sam forces a smile despite the mild irritation coursing through him. “I’ll prove to Heaven that bonds are what make humans stronger, not weaker.”

 

Lips curling upward, like they probably shouldn’t, like he’s fighting it, Castiel glances at Sam with nothing but admiration behind his eyes. _Silly Sam_ , he thinks, to believe that his brother is the only man he has to worry about falling for.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Sam goes off to question some authorities about a missing girl on his own, well aware that Dean didn’t sleep enough the previous night to tag along. He leaves a simple message with Castiel for when his brother wakes up.

 

“Tell him,” he stops to scribble on a paper in case the angel has to leave for Heaven, or some similar unexpected situation. “I am going to the local police station to ask about a girl who stabbed her mother 54 times.”

 

Castiel’s eyes widen for a moment, but his expression doesn’t change more than that. “Okay, I shall convey the message.”

 

Sam nods, pleased with the older man and places a hand on Castiel’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t be gone for more than an hour or two, tops.” And that is meant for the angel more than Dean, but no one needs to know that.

 

Castiel blinks, which must mean ‘okay’ in his weird language, and he follows Sam to the door, closing it behind him.

 

Dean turns over then, running a hand down his face, a smug smile tugging at his lips. “I can’t believe he thinks I need more sleep.” He shakes his head, dragging his fingers through the hair at his nape.

 

Clearly, Castiel was not expecting to hear a voice behind him because his frame jumps, and he shakes for a second—just long enough for Dean to notice—before his body slips back into composure.

 

“Sorry,” Dean adds with a chuckle. “Didn’t know I could actually scare angels.”

 

There’s a huff, one that Castiel produces rarely and mostly in Dean’s presence.  “I was not frightened. I was merely not expecting you to wake yet.”

 

“Hey,” He throws his legs over the edge of the bed, stretching his arms in the air. “At least I’d be man enough to admit when I’m scared.”

 

Earning him another huff, the angel crosses his arms, walking across the room in strides and avoiding eye contact at all cost. If there’s a patch of skin revealed just above Dean’s navel, he isn’t looking at it either. Castiel sits in his usual chair, ignoring his leg fidgeting again.

 

“Sam said for me to pass on a message,” He pulls out the paper, analyzing the handwriting. It’s messy, but charming, much like Sam’s hair in the morning. “But I’m certain now that it’s pointless that I do so, since you were awake.”

 

Dean lets his shoulders fall back onto the bed, his legs still dangling off. He looks at his friend upside down, because he’s too lazy to turn over, and Castiel’s staring is actually tolerable like that. “Yeah, I heard.” It’s so tolerable that he doesn’t even tell the older man to stop, even as it’s starting to border on being a creepy amount of staring. “Sam is better at that stuff than I am anyway, I’ll just jump in later.”

 

Castiel clears his throat; that earlier patch of skin is growing, and it’s making him feel uncomfortable in his nether regions. “Do you intend to go back to sleep then?” Secretly, he might be hoping the answer is ‘yes’.

 

Dean sits up with a jolt, climbing off the bed, and joining Castiel at the table. He looks around the room as though he doesn’t already know his reply. “Nope. Not with your doe eyes on me like that.” His smile is friendly, warm, comforting, even if his words aren’t.

The way Dean is sitting; an arm thrown on the table, the other scratching at his nape lazily, Castiel can almost fully see the handprint he left on Dean. It provokes a weird sensation that makes him shift in his seat uncomfortably. Fortunately, his nether regions aren’t so much the problem anymore since, now, his throat feels tight and entirely too small for the lump he’s trying to swallow down. Dean is neither blind nor stupid, so he catches on, even if he pretends he doesn’t.

 

“Shall I leave you to—“ Words escape him. Go to the bathroom and shower? Change your clothes? But all of those phrases force his brain to think about his charge being naked. He leaves it at that, settling for a hand gesture.

 

“Well, I’m starving actually,” Dean rubs his palms together playfully. “Can you, like, teleport some grub here?”

 

Castiel squints then. “Do you think that’s what I’m here for? I’m not a genie, Dean.”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, thoroughly annoyed with the angel’s lack of humour. Once again. He can’t say he’s not surprised with Castiel knowing what a genie is, though. “It was a joke, genius. God, all my best jokes are wasted on you.”

 

That comes out meaner than is meant.

 

Dean sighs, guilty. Castiel stares at the wall, also looking guilty for some reason. “I’m sorry,” he mumbles. “I’m still rusty when it comes to human— _practices_.”

 

Well that isn’t hard to pick up on, Dean thinks. His hand is reaching across the table then, on Castiel’s shoulder, squeezing gently. “I know.”

 

His hand is meant to let go, like he wills it to, meant to move away, meant to do anything but settle there and get _comfortable_. Castiel is looking at the hand, then back up to Dean, his eyes inquiring, overflowing with questions probably, but he still can’t move it away. Instead, and he’s sure this is not what he told his body to do, his face is leaning in, closer than he’s ever been to another man, closer than he’s ever been to _Castiel_.

 

The angel is oblivious as always, thinks this means there’s some secret coming his way, so he follows suit. Personal space is not an issue for him, that’s for certain. Dean licks his lips, his fingers unmoving from the shoulder they’re pressed against. Castiel opens his mouth, wanting to ask all sorts of things Dean doesn’t know how to answer. And suddenly his body screams, urges _that’s an opening,_ and his lips are crashing down on the angel’s—hard.

 

The sound of keys jingling scares a whimper out of both of them—what else would make two grown men whimper, definitely not the kiss—and Sam is baffled by why, not only his brother, but an Angel of the Lord, look like adulterers caught with their pants down. It’s not his place to ask he knows, but he really—really—wants to find out.

 

Sam drops a bag in front of Dean, slipping the keys in his pocket as he eyes them again for good measure. “That’s a bagel with egg and bacon,” he looks over at Castiel, who can _usually_ never stop staring, and he’s surprisingly, unable to keep his gaze on Sam for more than a few seconds at a time. “And I figured you didn’t need anything.”

 

Dean unwraps the bagel, chomping down on the carb-filled delight to avoid having to speak. Castiel nods in Sam’s general direction, his Adam’s apple jumping in his throat as he struggles to sound like he didn’t just enjoy having Dean’s tongue down his throat. “That’s correct, Sam. I have some—uh—work to attend to in Heaven now.”

 

Wings, they can hear but not see, flutter past them and Sam scoffs, dropping his weight onto the newly emptied seat. Dean is taking bigger bites now, filling his mouth to the point where it would be unwise, even dangerous, if he tried to talk. Sam knows that, Dean knows that, they both know that. It’s settled.

 

They sit in silence for the rest of breakfast. Sam tells Dean about the case, about how the girl supposedly blacked out and stabbed her mom to death, not sparing any gruesome details (Revenge? Never.), and they jump in the Impala together like nothing happened. But whether Dean wants to admit it or not, something did. And Sam is going to get to the bottom of it.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

For the next week, Castiel seldom comes around, and every time he does, Dean acts either like a complete jerk or someone hopelessly in love, Sam notices. Both are interchangeable when it comes to Dean. He’s not even good at dealing with everyday emotions, so when intimacy is involved, he’s complete and utter crap at dealing with it.

 

Since Dean doesn’t know how to be normal around his protector anymore, Castiel naturally starts creating a bond with Sam.

 

Sam wants to pat Castiel on the back and tell him that Dean just needs time, but his heart won’t let him, won’t give up his own satisfaction of having the angel spend more time with him. It’s selfish, but it’s up to Dean to suck it up and deal with his feelings if he wants them to be reciprocated. Or maybe Sam will have to step in and ensure his own heart is heard loud and clear first.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Sam knows he should have knocked louder, but how is he supposed to know Dean is going to be in the middle of a private conversation with Castiel in the bathroom? (If he has been anticipating catching them in the middle of whatever they were doing before, no one needs to know.) It’s hard to make out most of what’s being said, but the body language between them is clearer than a clear, blue sky. He thanks whoever invented mirrors ten times over for at least allowing him to see that much.

 

His brother has a hand latched onto Castiel’s wrist, possessively, like it belongs there, with serious and unmoving eyes as he continues his speech. It might even be an awkward confession. Castiel’s eyes dart to the mirror, catching a glimpse of Sam but he doesn’t voice the fact, tearing his eyes away to look back at Dean. If it’s a confession, Dean is doing a pretty piss poor job of it from the look on the older man’s face.

 

Dean is staring at Castiel like he does Sam; he’s waiting for a reaction, something that shows he didn’t just pour all his feelings out for nothing. Sam’s not even sure if that’s what’s really happening, but that’s what his imagination made up. The angel does little more than remove Dean’s fingers from his wrist and head through the doorway of the bathroom, his eyes still and emotionless.

 

As his gaze follows the slighter man, Dean sees Sam standing there with food—again—but doesn’t bother explaining anything. Walking past the beds and Castiel who, now, seems frozen with betrayal, Dean glances into the bag still in Sam’s hold and announces calmly: “There’s no pie, Sam. I’m gonna find some.”

 

And he’s off somewhere, again, because that’s what he does best: avoids any and all emotional conflict.

 

Castiel is in a daze as he watches Sam join him at the table. It looks like the life snaps back into him when he notices the younger man is smiling, and his eyes narrow with bewilderment. “Why are you smiling?”

 

Sam takes the food from the bag and sets it on the table between them. “He won’t be back for a while, so we can eat together. Plus—“ He leans down to bring up a bottle that was hidden under the table. “Dean doesn’t know how to hide his secret stash of alcohol so well.” His smile widens; it’s hopeful and cautious. “I know you don’t really eat, but do you want to drink with me, Cas?”

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

“You know,” Castiel munches on the burger meant for Dean. “Though I didn’t have hunger to satisfy, this is really delicious.” He smiles at Sam before the next bite, the corner of his eyes crinkling with the strain of it. “This makes me happy.”

 

Sam may or not have planned on the angel deciding to get drunk with him, but he’s certainly glad the older man agreed.

 

“So,” Sam chews on a mouthful of salad. “You can eat? It doesn’t do anything, right?” He stabs the vegetables with his plastic fork, waiting for the answer before sliding the salad between his teeth.

 

Castiel takes another big bite, ketchup staining the corner of his lips. “No,” he swallows down what he can, but he has so much in his cheeks that he’s starting to look like a chipmunk. “It doesn’t affect my vessel. Actually, I have been on Earth so long now, I’ve come to enjoy the _smaller things_ , as you’d call them.”

 

Pouring another glass of rum for Castiel, Sam closes the bottle back and slides it between them. Although the angel isn’t a fan of conversing when he’s sober, if you get him tipsy enough, he blurts out all of the thoughts that cross his mind.

 

“I must say,” the blob of ketchup is still at the edge of his mouth and Sam desperately wants to— _lick it, taste it_?—wipe it away for him. “I knew you were kind when I first met you, but this goes beyond what I expected.” Castiel smiles widely, baring his teeth for the first time. “Thank you, Sam.”

 

When an Angel of the Lord tells you you’re beyond kind, there’s not much you can say in return. Sam smiles back, just as widely, grabbing a napkin to dab away the ketchup. It probably would have been easier to just tell him, but that’s not as gratifying. “Here, let me,” and he’s wiping the imperfection off, ignoring his urge to lean in and kiss Castiel. “Better.”

 

Castiel finishes up his burger and reopens the bottle, pouring himself twice the amount Sam was, tilting towards Sam questioningly. “Shall we continue drinking?” He eyes the rum hungrily, his pink lips parting for his tongue to dart out quickly. “My tolerance for alcohol is still high. It will take me more than this to become inebriated.”

 

Well at least their goal is the same; to get Castiel drunk enough to ignore his problems. (And possibly discuss that mark on Dean’s arm because it’s fascinating and hot.)

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

The bottle is empty, most of it having been refills to Castiel’s glass because Sam’s a lightweight when it comes to hard liquor. It’s almost two hours later and Dean still hasn’t returned. Sam thinks it’s safe to assume his brother found a girl at the diner where the pie was, and went back to her place for some ‘quality time’.

 

And Castiel isn’t dumb, even if he _is_ ignorant to human behaviour at times, so he probably figured that out, too.

 

“Sam,” his eyes cross—cutely, adorably, alluringly—in a way that speaks more than any words could. “I think I’m finally—what’s the word? Um—” His hand sways through the air searching for it.

 

“Drunk?” Castiel nods, grabbing onto Sam’s hand and squeezing it reassuringly.

 

“That’s the word,” his toothy smile appears again, and Sam could get used to it if he’s not careful. “Thanks.”

 

Sam chuckles, squeezing the hand in return, his other hand under his chin to keep him balanced. “No problem.” His smile says _‘I want to kiss you, I want to touch you, I want you to want me to do those things’_ , but Castiel is still oblivious to flirting and the likes, so he doesn’t have to worry when his face betrays his mind.

 

Castiel stands, for some reason, and walks toward his bed. Sam’s that is. He falls onto it, a tangle of limbs, his trench coat hanging off of one arm, trying to catch himself on the bedpost. “That—” A burp. “—Sorry. That was close.”

 

Sam is tempted like Eve was tempted in the garden; a snake, wearing a white collared shirt, black dress pants and a tan coloured coat is lying in his bed— _his_ bed—with no control over his body, and a mind full of emotions and knowledge he can’t use properly for the moment. If Castiel wasn’t the one he usually prayed to, prayed for, he would be thanking the Heavens.

 

It seems almost too good to be true.

 

Sam doesn’t know how to deny himself simple pleasures, though, and he’s standing, trying to get to the same bed even though his legs are shaky. While his limbs feel like jelly and he’s forcing them to cooperate, fighting their resistance, Castiel is throwing his coat on the floor, kicking his shoes off and sprawling out on his back. It takes restraint of epic proportions for Sam not to just strip the rest of the clothes off, then and there, and find out what angels taste like.

 

Sam is inexplicably curious as to what works on them, what gets them off. Maybe that’s what the mark on Dean’s shoulder is about.

 

He reaches the bed, in a heap not unlike Castiel, and sits in the corner that it seems the angel left for him. It’s a small space, just big enough for someone to sit down in, but it’s the thought that counts. Castiel stretches, kicking Sam in the back by accident, and sitting up to apologize. “Sorry,” but he falls back against the bed, immediately missing the comfort of the pillow. “You should lie down as well.”

 

Is that an invitation? Sam thinks he needs to hang around Dean less so he stops confusing reality with porn, too.

 

Sam is lying down, on his back just as Castiel is, with his fingers intertwined and resting on his stomach. The angel is looking at him, he knows, can feel the burning against the side of his face, but he doesn’t want to look into those baby blues, doesn’t know what his body will do if he can’t stop it in time (if he manages to stop it at all). Castiel sighs, looking up at the ceiling when he feels ignored, and Sam finally breaks the silence.

 

“Are you,” it’s hard to ask someone so powerful if they need your help. “…okay? Do you want to talk about it? Or drink more?” Sam knows he is way past the point of no return though, alcohol-wise.

 

“If I am okay is of no import.” Beat. “But why haven’t you kissed me yet? I know that is what you are thinking.”

 

The snake is back, Sam mumbles thoughtlessly. Castiel quirks a brow, but doesn’t bother saying anything else.

 

“I want to but—I,” and finishing phrases must not be all that important in Heaven because Castiel is sitting up, turned on his side to face Sam, his fingers reaching out to angle Sam’s face towards his own.

 

“But what Sam?” Castiel’s fingers tickle along his jawline softly, his other hand grabbing Sam so quickly he has little (to no time) to process he’s sitting as well. “You have my permission.” Castiel brushes his thumb over Sam’s bottom lip, staring at it intently, hungrily.

 

That’s as sweet as the angel is most likely going to sound, Sam decides. And fuck Dean if he can’t deal with his homophobic issues, his feelings, because Sam can and _will_. And he intends to continue this.

 

“Okay,” he closes his eyes and takes a breath, for courage, his eyes flickering open a second later.

 

Sam leans in and kisses Castiel, the thumb still there, getting between their lips and tongues, but it adds something sultry to it, a depth he didn’t expect the first contact to have. Castiel is surprisingly forceful for a virgin, an angelic one no less. He kisses like the world around them doesn’t matter, doesn’t exist, that all they have is this moment to enjoy, and it’s theirs to keep.

 

But just because an angel, one that he adores, kisses like he’s trying to steal away the taste of Sam’s mouth, like he can’t get enough of every corner of flesh in there, like his life fucking _depends_ on driving them both up the wall, doesn’t mean he shouldn’t keep in mind that this is still Castiel—innocent and sexually deprived—doing this insanity to his body. The kiss deepens, somehow, and his hands fist in Castiel’s hair, holding him in place because, _wow_ , his lips taste like bliss wrapped in temptation, wrapped in arousal. The older man is clearly also enjoying the experience from the sounds he’s letting flow from his mouth and how he found a way to climb into Sam’s lap, despite being way past intoxicated. 

 

Sam is being controlled again—he has to consciously remind himself that or he could really start to like it—and he’s flat on his back, Castiel straddling him, his hips moving in slow circles against his visible erection. The dawning of the thought that he’s doing this with Castiel sweeps across him, but rather than discourage him, it makes him harder, and he suddenly wants to see more of the angel, wants to taste more.

 

“Cas,” Sam is too drunk, too aroused to get his thoughts out coherently. “Too much clothes. Off.” His fingers hold on to the hips driving him to the brink of frenzy, watching them roll with a purpose, with control beyond what a virgin should have.

 

Castiel nods, unbuttoning his shirt to the middle of his chest, then gives up and just pulls it off and throws it. Trying to keep his eyes open, because Castiel doesn’t know when to stop grinding, Sam settles for slipping his fingers in the dress pants and tracing the bones there over and over. Castiel probably likes the way Sam can’t breathe, can’t say more than a few words when he rocks against the touch, since he’s pushing his weight down harder against Sam’s cock.

 

“I am enjoying,” Castiel leans down to kiss Sam, a drag of teeth against his bottom lip, fingers rolling the taller man’s shirt up since Sam is mostly useless limbs and unintelligible sounds. “how my movements are making you vocalize your pleasure so loudly.” Sam’s shirt is tossed to a corner of the room, joining Castiel’s.

 

Though Dean would probably complain about his inept dirty talk, Sam doesn’t actually see anything wrong with it. He won’t deny that it even had an effect on his cock. For someone so new at sex, or whatever they’re doing—because just being touched at this point is enough for Sam—Castiel is learning astonishingly fast.

 

Sam doesn’t want to be outdone, refuses because he’s stubborn, and pulls Castiel closer for a rougher kiss. At first it’s little nips and tongues sliding languidly, accompanied by feather light touches to the right spots. But Sam growls when fingers brush past his cock, trying to open his zipper, and his kisses turn desperate and meaningful, his tongue searching every corner of Castiel’s mouth, pressure bruising the angel’s bottom lip with sheer need.

 

“Cas, wait,” he pulls away, breathless. His eyes cracking open, the little they can, to take in the angel’s disheveled look. It’s gorgeous and completely worth the tugging at his inside, like he’s being ripped apart, his body protesting the loss of contact. “You look fuckin’ _hot_ like this.”

 

Let it be known that Sam _is_ capable of making an angel blush because that is exactly what’s happening.

 

Castiel smirks, biting his lip, leaning down to leave trails of slick skin over Sam’s stomach, finally managing to free the taller man’s cock from its prison of layers. “If you are this aroused because of me, I am pleased.”

 

Sam is seriously considering recording all these senseless phrases for later use; they are way too hot to forget. Castiel tilts his head, waiting for an answer. “Of course,” Sam hisses as the angel drags his pants and underwear down in one swift motion, settling between his thighs, looking up curiously. “Fuck. Of _course_ it’s you, Cas.”

 

There’s something along the lines of _that makes me happier than the burger from earlier_ , but Sam is too distracted to listen what with the sudden mouth on his cock. Sam is no virgin—definitely no Dean, either—but he’s had his fair share of partners. But this, this greedy sucking, tasting, nibbling along his shaft, humming over the head of his cock, this is too much for him to handle.

 

He’s bucking up towards the warmth of those pink lips, fighting to keep his orgasm in check for a few more moments, because Castiel is just that good. The angel pulls back, letting the cock slip from the wonderful, praise-worthy heat of his lips, and wipes his mouth with the back of his hand almost too humanly.

 

“Sam,” and he didn’t realize his eyes were closed again until he hears his name being called. “I like the taste very much, but I’d like you to penetrate me.”

 

And if he wasn’t close before, he certainly is now.

 

Stealing a kiss because he can, because he needs to taste those glorious lips and enjoy them some more, Sam points to Castiel’s pants. “You’re still half-dressed,” it comes out more of a whine than a declaration like he intends it to. “You need to take these off.”

 

Castiel climbs off, shimmying out of his pants and underwear, because clearly that’s how all angels do it, with their lack of emotion and humanity. Sam chuckles, his hands in the air, gesturing for Castiel to return to his rightful spot: on top of him. More than happy to oblige, Castiel is back where he was a moment ago, his lips sealing over Sam’s, and his hips grinding down until they’re both pulling away to breathe.

 

“Wait,” Sam feels like he’s talking more than he usually does in bed, but Castiel doesn’t seem to mind. “I’ve never done it with a man. Are you sure, I mean—I—” His train of thought is suddenly disturbed.

 

Fingers wrapping around his erection slowly, tentatively, Castiel jerks his cock, his head tipping back in silent pleasure. After a few more strokes, Castiel’s head falls forward, eyes hooded and dark with lust, looking more and more like a snake (if you asked Sam). “I want to feel your erection inside me.”

 

Sam doesn’t need to be told twice, especially with how close he’s been for the past few minutes. “Okay,” and he feels like he sounds dumb, even though he’s too drunk to really care. “Just,” and he shifts Castiel higher up on his hips, ignoring the urge to take his lips in another kiss. “This might be uncomfortable.”

 

Castiel shakes his head, his flushed skin a welcome visitor. “Sam,” he positions himself above the too stiff, throbbing, dripping cock. “I’m an angel, I can take it. I can heal later.” His hips slam down, almost too quickly, making them both cry out with the sudden pressure.

 

Well, damn, that saves time.

 

But he can’t help feeling bad, so he doesn’t move for a while. “No, I don’t,” and the moans just force their way out of his throat, wave after wave of lust fighting him for control of his hips. “I can’t hurt you.”

 

Sometimes he forgets that Castiel is older than him, but how could he not when the guy—or his vessel, either way—has such a small frame, bright blue eyes, and child-like quality. Castiel’s chest rumbles with, what he assumes, can only be annoyance at that. He looks at Sam with a disheartening look.  It’s one that says he’s irritated and if his needs aren’t met _this fucking moment_ , someone will pay dearly.

 

“If you are unwilling to move,” Castiel rolls his hips, trying to distract Sam long enough to do what he’s planning. “I will find a way to do it myself.” His hips slam down just as roughly as the first time, pulling another cry from both of their throats.

 

He doesn’t want to admit it, but Castiel is right about him being ‘unwilling’; he just could not fathom going deeper when it meant the angel would have to heal due to it. But the rhythm is set, a merciless rhythm of Castiel’s choosing, and he impales himself until the hurt and painful friction turns into tight and delicious friction. Not that Sam even knows it hurts Castiel, not being allowed to know, so he just concentrates on the tightness around his cock and how deep inside he is.

 

“Cas. _Cas_ , oh,” And the angel is ignoring Sam because he’s just babbling, repeating his name nonstop (with adoration nonetheless). “Fuck, this,” Castiel uses Sam’s chest to steady himself and slides up and down faster, his nails biting crescents into the golden skin against his palms. “Why didn’t we do this sooner?”

 

Castiel huffs at that, in a way you would a stupid question, and leans over to suck on Sam’s lip, relishing the shudder it produces for either man. “We are doing it now,” Sam’s fingers find Castiel’s shoulder blades, circling them, then his vertebrae, following the shiver going along them, finally settling lower on an ass he’s always wanted to spank. “Mm. But I agree. You should have put your hands there sooner.”

 

Sam moans, his tongue suddenly being pulled into Castiel’s mouth, the suction sending tingles into nerves he didn’t even know he had there. He reciprocates by using his hands on the angel’s ass to force him down onto his cock faster, harder, making them both whimper louder in turn. Wondering if Castiel needs a hand, literally, between his legs, one of his arms reaches between them to palm the older man’s cock.

 

“No,” the response rips from Castiel’s vocal chords so suddenly it surprises them both. “I mean to say, if you do that,” Castiel can’t stop moving even if he wants to, high on the feeling of Sam’s cock driving further inside him and filling him to the hilt. “I will climax too quickly.”

 

It shouldn’t be such a turn on hearing an angel beg you _not_ to touch their cock because it will make them come, but it damn well is. Sam smirks and nods, his face nuzzling in the crook of Castiel’s neck as he manages a few more thrusts into the tightness that is draining every inch of sanity he has left out of him. 

 

Castiel, without being touched, comes first.

 

It hits between their stomachs, but they don’t acknowledge it, continuing to kiss until Sam’s rush follows, his fingers digging into the skin of Castiel’s ass, almost possessively. They pant, face to face, just watching each other with reddened skin and happiness painted across their features, for what feels like an eternity. Castiel moves a little, Sam’s cock sliding out achingly slow, considering how sensitive it is now. He lies back on the side where he was, the line of his body touching Sam’s at every point possible.

 

“I believe,” hiding his face in Sam’s neck, too embarrassed to look him in the eye for the moment, he whispers. “I’d like your mouth to be on me next time.” Sam can feel the widening smile against his collarbone.

 

Something about the promise of ‘next time’ makes him giddy, which requires energy that he doesn’t have, so he settles on petting Castiel’s hair as encouragement. It seems to be an acceptable substitute for a verbal response judging from the low vibration he feels against his skin where Castiel’s mouth is.

 

His vision trails along Castiel’s hair, amused by the contrast of the dark hair against his knuckles. He wants to reach with his other hand and tuck Castiel’s hips in closer, but his elbow catches in the wet mess on his abdomen instead. It’s an odd image; there’s come on his stomach, on Castiel’s, and probably leaking out of Castiel, but he just can’t muster enough of anything to clean them up.

 

“I can do it,” Castiel whispers, disappearing and returning with a tissue. “I’m inebriated but still an Angel of the Lord.”

 

He wipes away the mess on Sam’s stomach first, watching the muscles jump when he reaches the area where his hip bones are most prominent. That is his new favourite area. Since Sam is falling asleep, he can’t tell him that right away. Then he notices the splotch of white on Sam’s arm and rubs that clean as well. He takes another tissue and wipes the come from his own stomach, more methodically, but doesn’t bother with the come lower down because his skin healed already, and it’s likely to disappear soon.

 

Sam turns, to face Castiel, his eyes closed tight as he wraps an arm around the slighter man, pulling him in close to cuddle, like he had wanted to previously. He’s asleep so quickly that Castiel doesn’t have time to say ‘ _thank you’_ or _‘I love you’_ , so that will have to wait too. He wraps them in the blanket and strokes through Sam’s hair until he hears quiet snoring.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Sam wakes up to an empty bed and an even emptier motel room. He understands Castiel not wanting to stay since he doesn’t sleep, and he’s probably still not completely comfortable with their new relationship yet, but that didn’t explain Dean’s lack of an appearance.

 

He rolls to the side, sore, sort of hungover, and notices a note on Dean’s empty bed. He leans across, thanks to his long limbs—this being one of the times they come in handy—and grabs the note without leaving his bed.

_Sammy,_

_Wake the hell up already, will ya?_

_I tried to get you up, and since it didn’t work I went out to get breakfast._

_Be back soon,_

_Dean_

 

Sam smiles, crinkling the note in his palm; that mystery is solved. The new mystery that requires attention now: what time is it?

 

He looks through his bag for his phone, gasping when he realizes it’s one in the afternoon. He must have slept twelve hours easily; that’s a new record for him. Dean’s keys jingle in the door at that moment and he walks in, bag of food in one hand and coffee cups in the other. “Morning sunshine,” he sounds too awake to be considered normal, but the dark circles under his eyes tell a different story. “Did you sleep well, princess?”

 

Sam looks for something to throw at his brother but can’t think of anything except the note in his hand. He throws that, and it misses its mark, sadly. Dean doesn’t even see it fly through the air and land behind him. “I did, actually.” He scrubs an eye haphazardly, taking in the smell of freshly brewed coffee. Dean always knows where to find the good stuff. “I’m guessing you had a good night?”

 

Dean scoffs and hands Sam one of the cups, walking across the room and putting the other on the kitchen table. “I certainly did,” the bag makes a crumpling sound when he digs through it for the purchased items. “The girl was like a wild animal, couldn’t get enough of me. Didn’t get much sleep.” That explains the extra strong coffee he has—which Sam can smell—and the living dead look on his face.

 

Sam ignores the pinch of jealousy he feels when he imagines a girl all over Dean, again. What gave him the right to want Dean all to himself when he had one of the best nights ever with Castiel? It’s not only unfair to his brother, but to Castiel, who gave himself completely and without hesitation, to him. He shakes the sting away, taking a sip of the warm cup of java instead. Definitely milder than Dean’s cup.

 

Dean bites into a toast point, the crumbs falling into a polystyrene container where Sam can see there are eggs, bacon and sausage. “So what did you do?” He jabs the sausage with his fork, biting into it. “Castiel stay after I left?”

 

For some reason, he didn’t think they’d be discussing this so soon, but apparently they are. A good a time as any, Sam figures. Plus if he lies, Dean will know, can always tell.

 

“Yeah,” he takes another sip, trying to avoid eye contact with his brother. “We drank your rum,” and as an afterthought. “Sorry.” He’s surprised at how unapologetic he sounds.

 

Dean shrugs, and after a short delay, processes the meaning behind the words. It’s morning for both of them. “Wait, what—” he puts his fork down. “…Castiel actually drank? And you let him? And I didn’t _see_ this?”

 

Sam snorts. Leave it to Dean to bypass the part about his rum being gone, and complain about not seeing an angel drunk instead. “He drank a lot more than me, wasn’t sober anymore either.”

 

Dean makes a weird sound in his throat, most likely due to the eggs he’s trying to swallow at the same time as expressing his unhappiness. “Dude,” he sticks another forkful of food in his mouth. “Call me next time. Take pictures, something.”

 

“I don’t think a drunken Cas would take too kindly to that,” he takes a long sip of coffee this time, wondering if there’s any food in the bag for him. No harm in asking. “You got anything in there for me?”

 

“Only if you tell me what happened while Cas was drunk,” Dean says without missing a beat. Sam chokes on his next gulp of coffee, banging his chest with a fist to get it down. “And if you lie, I am eating your brunch in front of you.”

 

Well that’s just perfect; another reason he can’t lie to his brother besides guilt.

 

Sam is starving, can’t deny that, but Dean deserves to know what’s going on—breakfast or not. He needs more coffee if he’s going to say what he’s about to, but he’s almost out, and he considers asking Dean for some of his, but from the look of death written across his brother’s face, he knows _Dean_ will need it more once he finds out what Sam is hiding.

 

“Tell me first,” he puts his cup down, throwing his legs off the side of the bed. “What did you get me?” Is it even worth confessing he had sex with Castiel? Or worse, all the teasing Dean is probably going to start shoveling at him?

 

“Well sweetheart,” Dean peers in the bag, a smirk spreading across his lips slowly. “If you want to know, you have to tell me first.” He chomps into another toast point, humming loudly to force Sam into submission.

 

Sam’s stomach grumbles; it’s now or never. “Fine, jerk,” he sighs, preparing mentally for the slew of insults and bad jokes, puns even, that will come flying his way. “Castiel and I—we…kinda—“ And he’s gesturing in the air because the words just won’t come out. He feels the creep of blush crawling over his cheeks, too. “—We had sex!” He blurts out, squinting and waiting for laughter.

 

Dean doesn’t say anything. And that’s a bad sign, Sam knows.

 

He’s either holding in his laughter and it will explode like a hurricane later, bursting Sam’s eardrum when they get in the Impala in the process, or Dean is in shock and doesn’t know what to say so he’s not dealing with it at all. From the look on Dean’s face, the forced smile, his eyes searching for some type of answer, his jaw clenching harder around each bite, he’s not dealing with the news well. Not one to go back on promises though, in passing by to go the bathroom, he drops the breakfast on Sam’s bed, but still doesn’t utter a word.

 

This is going to be a long day.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Castiel follows Dean into the bathroom, ignoring his protests for privacy. “Dean,” his voice is even, but something is off. “I did not see anything wrong with the kiss.” He leans in, wanting to do it again, but Dean turns away, his hand outstretched to keep distance between them. “Is it because of my vessel?”

 

Dean scoffs at that. Even if he was completely straight, Castiel is an exception to life forms in general. Someone so pure-hearted and loyal, so willing to drop all they believe in on a whim to follow you to the depths of Hell, _literally_ , that is who Castiel is. That is who is protecting him. That is who is standing before him, heart breaking, asking for this one tiny request, and Dean can’t accept it.

 

Sam is right, he _is_ a jerk.

 

“That’s not it, Cas,” He lets his hand fall, letting Castiel move into his personal space like he knew he would. “I just,” he puts an arm on his friend’s shoulder. “I am dealing with some things right now, and—” _I don’t want to break your heart. I don’t want to disappoint you. I’m not good enough for you,_ “It doesn’t concern you.” He sincerely must be an _asshole_.

 

Castiel’s brow furrows, demanding more of an explanation. Dean sees that. “I don’t understand,” he pushes the hold on his shoulder away abruptly, his gaze more stern, harsh. “You are the one who kissed me,” he’s trembling with anger, and he wants it to stop, doesn’t want this vessel anymore suddenly. “You are the one who led me to believe the feeling was mutual.”

 

Dean shakes his head slowly, “No, I know. I get it.” His fingers find Castiel’s wrist, holding on to the pulse there, trying to soothe the rage away by rubbing his thumb back and forth. “That was a mistake though.” Stupid, stupid, imbecilic waste of a man, he thinks.

 

It wasn’t a mistake, couldn’t have been, not with the way his body is so eager to do it again just from standing so close to Castiel. But saying that would only lead the older man on, and he’s not ready to deal with his love of not only one, but two men now.

 

Castiel looks away, refuses to make eye contact when Dean calls his name softly. “Cas,” his voice sounds small, even to his own ears. He can’t get out the words he means to say. “I’m sorry.” That’s all he can do, little though it may be. His fingers continue to rub at Castiel’s wrist until he takes the digits off with his other hand, walking away.

 

Dean doesn’t want the conversation to end like this so he follows his friend, realizing as he steps out of the bathroom that Sam is there with food in his hand. Though it’s one of the only times his brother has thought to bring him something back, he just can’t find his appetite. But saying that is too suspicious, so he opts for something more subtle.

 

He sees Castiel in his peripheral vision, looking miserable, and he knows nothing he can say will make the older man feel better, so he says nothing. Once he reaches Sam and the food, he peaks in the bag; there’s a hamburger, fries and some napkins.

 

“There’s no pie, Sam. I’m gonna find some.” And he doesn’t look back to see the expression on his brother or his friend’s faces.

 

Dean’s outside, somehow having remembered to pick up his car keys, but not his jacket hanging on the chair near the table. He rushes over to the Impala because, although it’s still summer, it’s a chilly night and it’s making him shiver all over (or maybe that’s the overwhelming amount of guilt flooding his senses).

 

He’s driving, somewhere, in a straight line, mainly, until he finds a bar far enough away. Dean’s parking the car, checking the gas, and even walking to the bar in a normal manner, though every inch of his skin is screaming, insulting him, and wishing he wasn’t such a coward. He gets inside the bar, miraculously, and sits down on a stool before his legs give way.

 

The bartender is a girl, of course, and she smiles at him in the way that promises so many things he doesn’t want. “What can I get you, darling?”

 

He eyes her, just observing mostly, taking a menu from her hands. Her eyes are blue, not unlike Castiel’s, her hair a bob cut, messy and fluffy, dark enough to remind him of Castiel, _again_ , and he pulls his eyes away before he finds any more resemblances to make him feel a jab of guilt for.

 

“I’ll have a pitcher of beer,” he hands her back the menu. “Whatever’s cheapest.” It doesn’t have to taste good if it does the job of giving him a slight buzz.

 

She smiles again, tucking the menu under her arm. “Coming right up.”

 

Dean moves away from the bar and sits in a corner table, further in the back. He doesn’t intend to put his drunken stupor on display, even if he’ll only be in this town for a few more days. He tries to sit back but something in his back jean pocket is in the way, something thicker than his wallet. He pulls it out, scoffing when it’s just his cellular phone, as usual. Technology always gets in his way.

 

He stares at the screen for a moment then scrolls through his contact list. Sam might need to know where he is, or at least that he won’t be back for the night. But knowing his brother, he’ll figure it out on his own in a few hours. Castiel might worry though, and he isn’t used to his binge drinking like Sam is. His thumb hovers over Castiel’s number for a second, almost about to dial it, when the bartender comes over with his beer and he shuts off his phone instead.

 

“Here you go,” She sets the pitcher down softly, handing him a napkin and a plastic cup. “Is it just you?”

 

Dean forces a smile. “Yep,” he pours himself a cup and sips it. “Just me tonight.” And he knows how that must look, doesn’t care though.

 

“It’s on me then, darling,” She scribbles something on a receipt, and slides it across the table, turning on her heels and heading back to the bar area.

 

When she’s far enough that she can’t see him, he turns it over, expecting the see the digits he finds. Crumpling up the paper and putting it next to his phone, he tries to turn off his brain’s automatic number memorizing problem, but it won’t let him. With every sip, his mind is repeating _783-2891,_ resisting when he tries to mix in random numbers so he won’t recall the one she wrote down.

 

So he drinks. And he drinks some more, and faster, to avoid any painful thoughts that surface when it’s not her number whispering to be called. The pitcher is done in no time, so he calls her over. Tipsy, but not noticeably enough for people who don’t know him to catch on, he pinches the bridge of his nose when she walks to his table. He needs to not pay close attention to her if he doesn’t want to be reminded of Castiel.  He hands her the empty pitcher and struggles for his voice to sound coherent, at least.

 

“I’d like something stronger now,” he blinks a few times, stretching underneath the table. “Do you guys sell bottles to customers? I could do with some tequila.”

 

She laughs, thinks he’s joking. His gaze doesn’t falter though, despite not wanting to look into those baby blues that bring his mind back to the scene in the bathroom. “S-sure. I’ll go check in the back.”

 

He nods to himself; half impressed he didn’t check out her ass, and half impressed with not having hit on her yet. Dean looks around the room too quickly and everything is spinning, but it’s nothing he hasn’t handled before. The bartender returns—and he would ask her name, if that didn’t qualify in his book as flirting, so he doesn’t—with a bottle of tequila in her hands, a towel wrapped through a loop of her pants.

 

“Got it,” she cracks the bottle open with the towel, to avoid hurting her palm. “Sorry I can’t pay for this one though.”

 

Dean makes a sound, which he hopes tells her it’s okay, but he’s not really sure what it is because her eyes are suddenly closer  when she leans in to pour him a shot.

 

“I could keep you company later,” she whispers, cupping his jaw gently. “If you want someone to drink with.”

 

“Not a bad idea,” the words leave his mouth before his brain even has time to screen them. It is a bad idea; she’s pretty, she’s nice, she has the same blue eyes, same hair colour, even the same damn purity to her. It’s a very bad idea. “I don’t like drinking alone.” His mouth won’t shut up, though.

 

“Cool. I’ll be back in a few,” she rubs his chin softly before pulling away. “I’ll pay for half the bottle too. Don’t worry.”  She disappears through the crowd again, and Dean doesn’t stop himself from watching the sway of her hips this time. _She is ripe_ , is all he can think for the next few moments, _ripe for the picking_.

 

He knocks back the shot she poured for him, immediately pouring another, not even letting the slow burn of the first reach his chest before there’s another making its way down to his stomach. People need stuff to bite into usually, to change the taste, but Dean doesn’t even bother with the lemon slices, wants to feel it at full effect, needs the internal distraction.

 

The bartender returns not too much later, like she said, and sits across from Dean, not complaining about his legs stretched under her chair. “Hey,” she grabs the bottle and pours them both a shot. “Had a bad day? Want to talk about it?”

 

She said talk, but his cock heard ‘fuck’, and his body heard ‘fuck’, but his heart heard ‘cry’. That’s a lot of misunderstandings for one person, honestly. Dean ignores the thoughts, all the wrong ones at least, and takes the glass when she hands it to him, downing it in a flash. “Not really,” he wipes the residue away with the back of his hand. “What’s your name?”

 

“Casey,” she follows suit and swallows her tequila down, too, grabbing a slice of lemon to chase the aftertaste. “My name’s Casey.”

 

Well isn’t that peachy. She looks like Castiel, her name starts with the same three letters, and their personalities are similar. If he didn’t know better, he’d think this was either a gift from God, or a test to see just how much of an asshole he really can be.

 

“I’m Dean,” he attempts to fill their glasses, but almost spills the bottle, so Casey helps him along. “Thanks.”

 

She shrugs nonchalantly with her glass in the air waiting for Dean’s to join her. “Cheers,” their glasses make a weird, unexpected sound and she tries not to spit her shot out when she’s laughing too hard at it.

 

They drink nonstop, and if Dean wasn’t feeling so inadequate and out of place, he would be banging her brains out right now. Hell, he could still show her a good time with all the alcohol in his system, but it just doesn’t seem like the right thing to do. So he doesn’t make any dirty jokes, doesn’t stare down her shirt even though she offers a few times, doesn’t walk with her back to her place nearby when the bar closes, and doesn’t bother calling her despite still knowing her number by heart.

 

Dean gets to the Impala, drives it further into the tree line, and turns off the engine. He’ll just sleep in the car until morning, until he’s sober enough to see the line separating the road, and suffer through any and all thoughts of Sam or Castiel naked in his arms. Morning isn’t that far off anyway; it’s already 3 am.

 

Two hours later, he’s still staring at his dashboard, wishing he’d just followed that Casey girl home, and ignored her when she made passes at him, so he could have a nice sleep on a couch at least. But how could he even dream of denying her when she was so damn willing? There was no way he would have made it out of there with his conscience intact.

 

Another hour later and the curves of the dashboard are starting to look like Sam’s ass in his jeans. He bites his lip hard enough to draw blood, and yank him out of that off-limits fantasy.  Dean gets out of the car, deciding he should try to sleep in the back instead. He lies down, much more comfortably, and in spite of the sun trying to disturb his delicate slumber, he succeeds in falling asleep first. By this time, it is past 6 in the morning.

 

His phone vibrates in his back pocket, jolting him awake like a thunderbolt. It’s an alarm he set by accident a week ago that he never managed to undo. His eyes feel like they’re glued shut, and it’s hard to see the time, but he does see it after much blinking and eye rubbing. It’s 10 in the morning.

 

Four hours of sleep is all he can get, ever, it seems. Even on his days off, four hours is all his body will allow him to absorb. It’s for the best, probably, because his stomach won’t stop roaring like a lion, and trying to sleep through that is almost as difficult as trying to not imagine Sam and Castiel nude. Harder yet is trying not to imagine something after having mentioned it.

 

Defeated, Dean climbs back in the front seat, without opening any doors, and drives to a diner near their motel in search of food for him and his brother.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Dean splashes water on his face, resisting the urge to call Castiel down from Heaven so he can kill him _and_ Sam at the same time. For once in his life, he didn’t try to get into a girl’s pants, fought his urges tooth and nail, and instead, the two people he loves more than anything, didn’t keep it in their pants. It’s not fair for him to be fuming, boiling up inside, he’s aware, but he doesn’t care anymore because Sam’s words are in his head on repeat taunting him.

 

Breathe, that’s what he needs to do, just breathe.

 

He emerges from the bathroom, no less angry, and plops down on his bed face down. He needs sleep; that should work, that always does the trick. No matter how close he is to strangling Sam right now and pretending someone else did it so Castiel can pop in and get his share of pain too, he just needs sleep. Four hours isn’t healthy for any human, hunter or not.

 

“Dean,” Sam says from his bed, his voice brimming with worry. “If you’re mad at me, or Cas,” And why the fuck would he not be mad? If Sam knows him as well as thinks he knows him, which is unbelievably well, then he knows how he feels about Castiel. And more importantly, what he feels about Sam. And even more importantly, that he lied about getting laid. “I’m sorry. We were drunk and it just happened.”

 

Nothing ever just happens. He knows because he was drunk, could have slept with Casey five times over, but he didn’t. So stuff doesn’t just happen. He feels bitter, and to avoid sounding bitter, he takes a few moments before answering. “Doesn’t matter,” _but it does_. “I don’t care,” _but he does_. “It’s your decision,” that bit is true.

 

Sam is staring him down, watching for any fluctuation of emotion, any twitch of a muscle that will show he’s lying. And Dean’s jaw takes this moment to cramp. He flexes it, quickly, no more than for a second or two, but Sam catches it and sighs loudly. “No, Dean,” he feels like he’s in couple’s therapy with his brother. He probably is. “I know you’re mad,” he crosses his arms to punctuate the phrase. “Let’s talk about this, and get it over with.”

 

“Sammy,” Dean shakes his head. “You don’t know what can of worms you’re about to open if you make me do this.” His gaze finds Sam’s, taken aback by how much like their father he looks. That’s probably why they fought so much.

 

“No,” Sam is bristling with anger like he’s the one who just had the news dumped on him. “I think you’re just not prepared to deal with a chick-flick moment.” And he’s smiling, to lessen the tension in the room, to encourage Dean to open up for once. “And it’s Sam. I’m not 13 anymore.”

 

“Right,” his tone is flat, irritated. “Because you’re so grown up now.” He feels like a child whose toys have been taken away, and that’s how it’s coming across, unfortunately.

 

“Okay,” Sam turns to face Dean, his feet planted firmly on the carpet below his bed. Preventing the shaking in his hands, he latches on to the edge of his mattress. “Since you can’t say it, _I_ will.” He takes a deep breath, just as he had when he needed the courage to kiss Castiel. “I think you’re in love with Castiel, and he clearly loves you back.”

 

Dean doesn’t say anything, but doesn’t deny it either. Sam takes that as silent agreement.

 

“But there’s also something between us,” his words sound less strong, as though he needs someone to convince him of it himself. “I think something more than brotherly love.”

 

His throat is drying up, Dean’s is tightening, and neither brother can comment on that.

 

Turning his head back in toward the bed, Dean ponders what exactly their relationship is, what it means to him. Sam is always there for him, always helpful despite being younger, and an adult now with adult thoughts. Or at least, his body is fully grown. He’s like a cross between a human and sasquatch, just this giant thing you’d expect to be afraid of, that turns out to be so kind and loving, that you fall for him instantly (fall for him? That can’t be right).

 

Sam finds a way to settle it since Dean can’t. “Whatever we have between us,” he’s motioning with a hand, but Dean’s still intent on staring into the blackness of his bed, missing out on the movement. “We can figure it out later. We’ll always be together.” He looks down at his hands, remembering the feel of Castiel’s skin on his fingertips. “But Castiel, he barely knows us. Hell, he barely knows _humans_. You have to tell him something.”

 

Sam feels repent, and at the same time, not really. He’s been sensing a weird chemistry between him and Castiel for weeks, and it only strengthened when Dean pushed him away. There is, of course, guilt for hurting Dean, but he doesn’t regret having Castiel in his bed last night. And considering how real, how honest their feelings were for each other, it probably won’t be the last time. But that doesn’t change fact that Dean and Castiel share an intense bond.

 

Dean sighs from his face down position on his bed, leaning on an elbow to look over at Sam. He’s grinning, that smug bastard. As usual, Sam is the voice of reason at the back of Dean’s mind. Being a big brother is hard when you have such a perfect little brother.

 

“Yeah, fine,” he sits up, limbs aching from the lack of sleep. “But I don’t want to discuss… _whatever_ …with you here.”

 

“I know,” he shoves his laptop and the cord into his knapsack. “Don’t want to disturb you two anyway.” He throws the bag over his shoulder and heads toward the door. “Oh, keys, if you don’t mind. I’ll do some research on that girl I told you about. There’ve been a couple more murders. I’ll call Bobby if I need help.”

 

Dean grabs the keys from the night stand and throws them at Sam carefully. “You might need to gas her up. I drove her around last night.” He falls back onto the bed when Sam’s out the door, his arms tucked behind his head. Another hour of sleep sounds like a good reason to put off talking to Castiel right away.

 

“Dean,” and Castiel flutters in, sitting on Sam’s bed with his hands on his lap. “We need to talk.”

 

“Guess I should prepare the tissues now,” he mumbles under his breath. He continues when Castiel tilts his head with silent confusion. “Yeah, I know.” He heaves himself back into a sitting position, exhaling loudly; he was just getting into a comfortable position.

 

“I have something to confess,” Castiel clenches the fabric of his dress pants, having a difficult time maintaining eye contact. “Sam and I had—”

 

“I know.” Dean shakes a hand dismissively, his lips curling into a smile afterward. “Sam told me,” he mutters as he leans against the wall behind his head. “I was just going to call you Cas,” Castiel’s eyes are back on him, blinking slowly. “To talk.” He sucks his teeth. “Don’t look at me like that!”

 

“Like what?” Castiel sees nothing out of the ordinary or wrong with the way he’s looking at Dean. “I assure you I’m just listening.”

 

 _You don’t have to listen so closely_ , Dean says in his inside voice. “Right, fine,” The question that comes out next is not quite what he intends to ask, nor does it seem like Castiel is expecting it. “So with Sam, huh? Did you like it?”

 

That can’t be right.

 

Dean starts picturing the two of them kissing, their tongues swirling around playfully in each other’s mouths, and he shouldn’t be so startled—snapping out of his imagination—when Castiel answers, but he is. “It was enjoyable, yes. I really like Sam.”

 

Like is a long way from love, though, Dean’s inner voice points out with a hint too much pride attached. “But that’s not why you called me, correct?”

 

“Yeah,” Dean ruffles his hair because he can; he hasn’t slept more than four hours in _days_ , and he can’t look much worse than he already does. “I wanted to tell you—something.”

 

“You have my full attention.” Castiel says dryly, not meaning to discourage his charge though he knows that’s probably what his lack of intonation has done.

 

“I don’t know how to—uh,” he stammers, and the words trail off somewhere far, far away. Never to be found again.

 

“I know.” Castiel says plainly, cutting through the tension. Like it’s no big deal that Dean can’t grab hold of his emotions for once in his god-forsaken life and say exactly what he’s feeling. And besides, what does Castiel know? He can’t know. But then again, how could he not when he can read minds? Even if Castiel didn’t read minds, their connection is beyond palpable. Dean looks up, giving Castiel a sideways glance in wait of the explanation. “I share the same feelings for you.” Castiel fidgets, his fingers digging deeper into the fabric. “And perhaps for Sam, too.” The second part comes out as little more than a whisper.

 

“What was that?” In reality, it means Dean didn’t hear properly. In Castiel’s mind, Dean is on the offensive, insulted by that statement.

 

“I can be faithful to you,” he blurts out. He adds as an afterthought, “If that’s what you need of me. I can withdraw my feelings for Sam.”

 

A laugh sneaks its way out of Dean’s throat, it even burns his throat a bit, but that doesn’t stop it from continuing. Castiel’s eyebrows are drawn together, almost touching, and he’s completely unaware of how to react. Therefore, he refrains from reacting altogether. Moments later, he’s still scanning Dean to put the pieces of the puzzle together, and Dean is wiping the tears from his eyes, the laughter coming to a halt.

 

“Ah, Cas,” he leans in to tap his friend, guardian, lover—whatever—on the shoulder. “I don’t expect you to only love me, if that’s what you’re thinking. Besides,” his voice softens. “I can’t guarantee I won’t have the same problem, anyway.”

 

Still analyzing Dean like he’s a Rubik’s cube, his eyes are drawn to the fingers on his shoulder. It’s warm, not only where the contact is, but in his entire body. Watching him for longer, more relaxed than usual, Dean’s fingers follow the natural flow of Castiel’s shape, tracing along his neck, and stopping at his nape, curling in the hair there. Castiel opens his mouth to say something, but Dean’s hand is circling the strands at his neck so slowly, so lovingly, he decides that the thought can wait. If he can remember it later, that is.

 

“So,” he licks his lips, unable to recall why, perhaps because Dean is looking at them and it’s making him strangely self-conscious. “You and I—”

 

“Don’t say it,” he jokes, looking at Castiel through lowered lashes. “I don’t think I’ll be able to look myself in the mirror if you do.”

 

“Alright,” he agrees, embarrassment flowing through him. Angels are supposed to be pure, made for one companion and one alone. But Castiel, he can’t even do that right; he can’t decide between Dean and Sam.

 

“So it’s settled,” Dean announces with heat behind each word; he can’t tear his eyes away from those pink lips, slippery from when Castiel’s tongue darted out. “We both find each other—” Hot, sexy, breathtaking, perfect. “—attractive.”

 

There’s silence for a minute, maybe two, and Castiel thinks he needs to cut through it to avoid being swallowed up by the overbearing nature of it. “Indeed.” Dean hears _kiss me_ instead.

 

The fingers on the nape of Castiel’s neck tug him forward, forcing their lips together in a bruising kiss. Dean is relentless; he’s trying to pull his friend apart starting with his mouth, using all the teeth and tongue he can incorporate. It goes on for longer than it should, especially considering how _macho_ Dean likes to appear, but it tastes so new, so warm, so _appealing_ that he can’t hold back. When they finally _do_ separate, it’s because Dean can’t catch his breath, and not at all because Castiel’s fingers are stroking up his thigh through his jeans, painstakingly slow.

 

“You little devil,” he scoffs. “I mean angel.” He begins to smirk, then hisses when Castiel’s knuckles brush against the side of his cock.

 

“I can be both,” Castiel whispers against Dean’s lips. “If you require it.”

 

Instantly, Dean is on top of the angel, lapping and sucking at a spot below Castiel’s jaw, his mind in a wild frenzy to chase more of those words from his lips. Castiel pants; his skin is flushing, aflame, his body responding to every little touch and kiss that Dean offers him. His hips roll of their own accord, searching for friction and relief, finding the bulge in Dean’s pants to rub against. It induces an utterance of swear words from Dean, his head tilted forward and nestled in the neck he’s determined to mark and make his.

 

“Oh god,” he moans over the rapidly increasing pulse. “I know you want it too. I can feel it.”

 

Castiel hums, surprisingly quiet, his fingers searching blindly for any bit of skin he can find. When he unhappily discovers there’s none available to quench his need, he fixes the problem by tugging Dean’s shirt off and splaying his palm against his back. The action is so abrupt, Dean arches into the contact. His hips near Castiel’s and their cocks bump into each other through binding fabric. It draws a moan from both of their throats, almost in sync, as they force their eyes open to reproduce that addictive feeling.

 

Dean is sweating, droplets falling onto the spot where he sucked Castiel’s blood to the surface of pale skin, admiring his work proudly. He starts another mark right below, on Castiel’s collarbone, loving the way it reduces the angel to a mess of unintelligible sounds, and words in an unknown language, most likely Enochian.

 

“Dean,” Castiel pleads, his voice is raspy and deeper. “ _Please_.”

 

Making short work of the coat, shirt and even their pants, Dean rejoins Castiel on the bed when he’s satisfied with the amount of clothes they still have left—not much. “Better?” Dean steals the answer away with his lips, his tongue darting into the warmth he’s been dreaming about since last night. He’s wanted to kiss him again ever since that first time, ever since he’s looked at his mark again.

 

Fingers grip his ass firmly, causing him to yelp with surprise, forcing his cock to press harder against Castiel’s, their underwear being the only barrier left. Even like this, with this single obstacle between them, the friction is perfect. It’s good enough to send tremors of pleasure through his skin, all the way into his cock, filling it with more blood than he thought possible. Castiel squeezes his ass, his legs spreading to give Dean more space to fit between them.

 

“I want to taste you,” Castiel says, like an order, a firm command. Dean is all for this command.

 

“Wait,” he tries to roll over to avoid falling on Castiel, but he won’t have any of it. His teeth graze the outside of Dean’s cock as he hovers over the angel still lying on his back. “Ah, fuck,” and he’s arching again; the wave of delight catches him off guard, the motion too sharp, and he knows it’s going to hurt later.

 

Dean’s legs are on either side of Castiel’s torso, his hands gripping the bed at a weird angle near the pillows because, if he doesn’t, he’ll fall off the edge and onto his face.  It’s so damn uncomfortable, but if he could care, he still wouldn’t because Castiel is sucking him through his briefs, making a mess of the navy cotton, making _him_ a bubbling mess.

 

Castiel slips Dean’s cock through the y-front opening—bypassing the need to pull down the cotton briefs—and squeezes at the base lightly, drawing out the pre-come to dab it onto his tongue, swallowing the taste down shamelessly. He looks up at Dean, his eyes wide with excitement, suddenly noticing the off angle. He turns below Dean so he can hold onto the wall instead, Castiel still below him.

 

“Better?” Dean would laugh, except Castiel wraps both hands around Dean’s body and forces his cock down his throat suddenly.

 

“Fuck, fuck, yes,” he cries out, unable to stop his hips from thrusting. There’s a little gagging sound, but it stops when Castiel’s jaw turns slack and pliant for the cock shoving its way further. “Oh, fuck, Cas---”

 

“That’s me,” he teases. His words come out muffled, but still audible.  He smiles around Dean’s cock, his cheek stretching with the force of each thrust, pushing the hips in closer if he feels Dean pull back even slightly. He slides off, a wet pop making Dean’s eyes flutter open. “I can take it, Dean.”

 

Even if he wants to respond to that, Castiel refuses to give him a chance. His cock is all the way down Castiel’s throat, squeezed so tight by the muscles there, threatening to make Dean come just from the skewed image he now has of his dear angel. “God, you’re fucking beautiful,” he rasps out, his fingers white where they struggle to stay flat on the wall.

 

They might need to have a conversation about where Castiel learned all this, but it can wait until later. Besides, Dean has an idea already.

 

Castiel slides off, taking in a deep breath, his tongue toying with Dean’s balls, lapping across them. His digits furtively find the tiny ring of muscle and circle it gently, pulling the hairless sac into his mouth slowly. It’s too much for him, too many sensations at once, and his come lands, mostly, on Castiel’s tongue. The rest leaves strips across his nose, and when his cock jerks by itself, against the wall.

 

How Castiel knew he was going to come, he’ll never know.

 

Struggling not to land full bodied on Castiel’s chest, he lowers himself inch by inch, allowing Castiel enough time to slide out from below, disappear, and reappear with a tissue in hand.  Dean chuckles, the sound resounding to his own ears too, as he takes it from Castiel and dabs the end of the angel’s nose.

 

“Sorry ‘bout that.” Fingers wrap around his wrist tightly, preventing him from getting the rest. “But there’s more, Cas.”

 

“I know,” his other hand comes up to scoop it away, his fingers dipping into his mouth quickly, his tongue darting out to wrap around the long digits. “I told you I wanted to taste you.”

 

If he wasn’t so spent, his cock would be throbbing at that. “That—you,” the disease that makes him at a loss for words returns, “Hot.”

 

Castiel grins, pecking Dean on the lips, and leaving the bed to grab their clothes all over the room. Moments later, he’s back, his cock flat against his stomach, still hard, and Dean starts to feel bad. No matter how much his body is protesting, no matter how much he needs to get dressed right now, Castiel deserves to be rewarded for his amazing fellatio skills. And fast because who knows when Sam will be back.

 

“Cas,” he whispers, purposely, drawing Castiel nearer, “Come ‘ere.”

 

Happy to oblige, Castiel leans in as asked. He expects the tiny kiss placed at the corner of his lips, he almost expects to be pushed back against the bed, but he _does not_ expect the fingers wrapping around his cock gently, what with the exhaustion painted so clearly over Dean’s features.

 

“D-Dean,” he stammers, inhaling to keep the moan in check. His vessel often betrays him and he doesn’t want this to be one of those times. “I know you are tired.” Dean’s eyes narrow in defiance. “I am fine, I pro—”

 

Castiel is lost in another bewildering kiss; his mind shuts out all human language when Dean’s tongue plunges in further, his hand twisting in half circles along the head of his cock. “You are hard, and worth it, and fucked me up, so _deal_ with it.”

 

His lips are back on the collarbone he’s marked beyond recognition, drinking in the delicate skin, gnawing it between his teeth. His hand strokes Castiel’s cock in a steady rhythm of down to the base, twisting up the shaft, squeezing lightly at the tip, smearing the pre-come over his fingers to use as lubricant then back to the base. Dean repeats it as many times as he Castiel needs him to. Quite frankly, it’s more likely he’s repeating as many times as he _wants_ to. The delicious quivering of the stiff cock in his grasp, feeling it hardening with each stroke, knowing Castiel is moaning his name like a mantra because of it; he’s addicted to the power it grants him.

 

Dean increases the pace, craving Castiel’s breathless moaning in his ears, his teeth finding a taut nipple on his exploration of his friend’s sweat-covered body. “Come for me,” he asks softly, relishing the shudder it provokes throughout Castiel’s skin. “Come all over me.” It’s dirty, so unlike the Heaven Castiel is from, but the way his breath is hitching each time Dean’s palm brushes against the slit of his cock, it’s working.

 

“Dean, please,” he says weakly, begging.  “Please, let me,” he stops talking, his eyes clenched tight, close.

 

Never having kissed a man was a first a long time ago—back in college—but having a cock in his mouth is another first. Well, there’s a first to everything. Dean skitters down Castiel’s body, his head propped against the lean thigh as he hesitantly tastes the pre-come gleaming on his digits. It’s salty, bitter, mixed with the taste of sweat. At this angle, he can feel the resistance in Castiel’s legs; he doesn’t want to cover Dean’s face the same way his was. He’s afraid that it will turn him off from the experience and they will never get to share this intimacy again.

 

Lids heavy with exhaustion, but also fascination, Dean turns to see Castiel’s expression with his peripheral vision the moment he drags his teeth and tongue from tip to base in one long taste. He’s bobbing up and down before he even realizes it himself; he’s savouring every sound, every clench of Castiel’s jaw, every fear and vulnerability that drifts away and into his blood stream toward his cock.

 

He isn’t worried Dean will stop liking him anymore.

 

“I’m going to—” his eyes snap shut, his fingers finding Dean’s hair and tangling in the strands. Castiel’s body becomes still, the endless waves of pleasure seeping from his pores. Dean stays in place, swallowing it all down, a blinding smile hanging from his lips when Castiel finally loosens his grip of Dean’s hair and opens his eyes.

 

“Yummy,” he rolls on his side, circling the bone of Castiel’s hip with his index, his head propped up with an elbow. “We should do that again soon.”

 

Castiel lets out a puff of air, his smile mirroring Dean’s. “Soon, yes.” He pets Dean’s hair, his stomach jumping with each huff of laughter.  He sounds like he’s already recuperated from the activity, which makes Dean frown because he feels like jelly.

 

“Okay,” Dean stretches—still naked—his friend’s eyes all over him, and oddly he doesn’t mind, lying on his back. “Can you dress me? I’m dead.” He’s only half-serious, but Castiel looks at him with concern and worry. “I’m kidding, relax.” His jokes still don’t go over that easily.

 

“I can,” he says quietly. “I mean, I would very much like to.” He looks away when Dean tries to read his expression.

 

“Sure, fine.” He accepts, not sure why, to let Castiel put his clothes on. Maybe he wasn’t _just_ half-serious.

 

Castiel sits up, faster than Dean ever could in his current state—damn him—and collects their clothing on the floor. He slips Dean’s briefs back on with such minute precision you’d think he was in the middle of brain surgery. His tongue darts out, stuck in the corner of his lips, as he concentrates on not arousing Dean again, and sliding the length back behind the barrier of cotton.

 

Dean puts his hands behind his head, sporting the most suggestive smile he can muster. “Doing a great job there, Cas.”

 

Not even taking a moment to look up, he mumbles a _thanks_ , and returns to his brain surgery. The jeans come next; he thrusts one calf in, then the other, dragging it up the rest of the way, waiting for Dean to lift his hips momentarily so he can cover up his briefs and zip them up securely. If Dean didn’t know better, he’d think Castiel was enjoying this more than the actual blowjob.

 

“I can put my shirt on myself. Put some underwear on man, Sam’ll be back any minute.” It’s teasing mostly, but Castiel looks panicked for a moment, and rushes into the bathroom to do just that. He returns—to Dean’s displeasure—fully clothed, with the suit and beige coat that covers up his toned physique so well.

 

“Is this satisfactory?” Castiel says, rubbing out the creases in his coat.

 

“No, not really,” Dean jokes, feigning a yawn. “But it’ll have to do until we go shopping.”

 

Sam comes through the door then, knapsack in one hand as the key ring jingles in his opposite palm. “Am I disturbing? I heard shopping.”

 

Cocking a brow, Dean continues. “See, I was just telling Cas here—” The angel disappears with another flutter of wings. “Guess he’s shy after sex.”

 

“After sex?” Sam pinches the bridge of his nose. “Did I want to know that?” His words are biting, but the smile makes it hard to believe he’s annoyed.

 

“I think so.” Dean says playfully. “So what’d you find out?”

 

And Sam tells him all about the research, where to find the shapeshifter who killed those people, and his plan to trap and kill it. It’s quick, efficient and simple. Dean agrees to it and they head out. Their brotherly conversation will have to wait until they finish this up. They’ve been putting it off for too long already.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

 

They get to the hideout twenty minutes later, after having spent the entire ride keeping their eyes as far away from each other as possible. Hunting should not and cannot be mixed with personal issues—that’s just a fact.

 

If it’s a distraction they needed, then that’s what they were rewarded with when they arrived at the dark, smelly ‘home’. It’s a leftover body factory in the sewer Sam tracked the shapeshifter to; there are piles and piles of skin that it just dropped off in order to change into its next victim. It’s worse than they thought it would be.

 

There’s a sound, akin to a whimper, coming from a corner slightly further away, and they turn on a flashlight to see if (perhaps) one of the victims is lucky enough to still be alive. Sam is in front of Dean (which is frustrating because he’s so damn tall he can’t see past him) when they get to—what they can now see—is a young woman. Sam pulls out his pocket knife, making [quick work] of the ropes around her arms and legs, and working on the ones binding her wrists in place. Dean doesn’t mean to stare, but something about her is familiar, and not just that feeling of ‘oh you look like someone I know’ type of familiar.

 

“Casey!” he shouts, louder than he means to. The regret is already nudging at the back of his skull, reminding him they are there to kill something, not make it aware of their presence. He promptly kicks his common sense aside. “The bartender, right?”

 

She narrows her eyes, taking a moment to process what’s going on. Dean doesn’t blame her really; the man she drank with, flirted with, whom rejected her, is coming to her rescue in a sewer underground. Even he has to admit he can’t believe he’s seeing her again.

 

“D-Dean?” she stutters, gasping for air when Sam finally pulls the bandanna away from her mouth. “What are you doing here?”

 

“It’s our job,” Sam interjects. Dean knows how jealous he can get when pretty girls throw themselves at him rather than his little brother. “We’re here to save you.” Sam holds in his curiosity; now not being the best time to ask who she is.

 

Dean rolls his eyes, turning to keep an eye out for the shifter, in case he comes back before they’re ready for him. And speak of the devil, there are footsteps coming from exactly where they came from. They sound cautious, quiet even, if Dean wasn’t expecting that freak to show up sooner or later.

 

“Sammy, time to get a move on,” he whispers, trying to keep Casey calm. “The shifter is back.”

 

“I’m trying,” Sam mumbles, putting the flashlight in his mouth to get a better grip on the knife. It seems to work.

 

Dean can hear it getting closer, but one of the downsides to sewers is the echoing confuses you as to where the sound is coming from. Is it left, right, center? He can’t tell but he knows the shifter is about to get to them, and he can’t figure out which angle he should be protecting Sam from.

 

“Time’s running out,” Dean grumbles under his breath. “How much freakin’ longer are you gonna take?”

 

“Wait,” Sam says impatiently. The rope makes a snapping sound, and it falls to the floor in a pile. “Okay, done.”

 

“Great,” he sighs, realizing he lost track of the footsteps. “But now I don’t know where it is.”

 

“Dean!” Sam snaps, pushing Casey behind him, holding onto her wrist tightly. She’s shaking and he knows their bickering isn’t making her feel better. “What the hell man?”

 

“Not the time, Sammy,” Dean grits through clenched teeth. “You got her?”

 

“Yeah,” he glances over his shoulder and gives Casey a reassuring smile. “She’s behind me.”

 

“Okay, we’re gonna get her out, and come back when we know she’s safe.”

 

“That’s your plan?” Sam says pointedly.

 

“You got a better one, Sammy?” He turns around for a second, glaring at his brother. “I’m all ears.”

 

“No—Dean!” Sam notices the shadow of something running towards them. “Look out!”

 

A man comes up to them. Correction. A man who has Sam’s eyes and hair colour, Dean’s height and build, jogs up to them with his hands upraised. “Boys!” And his voice sounds exactly how they remember it.

 

“Sam,” Dean almost drops the gun until he remembers what they’re dealing with. Shifters can change into anyone and anything their heart desires. “Do you think that’s dad?”

 

“I—I don’t know, Dean.” He mutters, pushing Casey further behind him in case it is the shifter. “I forgot to bring a camera to check the eyes.”

 

“It’s me,” John Winchester sighs, his hands still up to let them work through their doubt. “I heard you two were on a job here from Bobby.” He takes a step closer, keeping his arms above his head. “I know how tricky shifters can be to kill, wanted to make sure my boys would be okay.”

 

“Sammy,” Dean’s brow creases, staring intently at his father. Or is it just that thing that _looks like_ their father? “Are you thinking what I am?”

 

Sam takes a deep breath, turning around to cover Casey’s ears with his palms. “Do it, Dean.”

 

Dean pulls the trigger, and just then John tries to dodge, and instead ends up with a shotgun round of silver in the chest. His eyes change from brown to a glossy, unidentifiable colour; it’s the same bright eyes that appear when they are caught on film.

 

Casey is trembling, but finds the courage to lean over and sees the corpse of the shifter lying there, motionless. She looks up at Sam. “How did you know it wasn’t your father?”

 

He snorts. “Our father would never come see us ‘cause we’re after something like a shifter.” He folds the knife in half, slipping it into his pocket, taking Casey’s hand gently.

 

“You got that right, Sammy.” Dean scoffs. Despite the upturned lips he manages, there’s still a nagging inside him, worried about where his father is, and why he hasn’t contacted in so long.

 

“Let’s get out of here,” Sam tells Casey. He can see the discomfort in Dean’s eyes; he always knows what he’s thinking. “I’m sure you can’t wait to.” And neither can they.

 

She nods, and they head out the way they came, Dean leading this time to avoid any unpleasant surprises.

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

 

“Dean,” he whispers, checking to see if his brother is sleeping. He can’t fall asleep even though he’s been trying to, even though he’d really _like_ to.

 

“Yeah, Sam.” Dean sighs, smoothing a hand down the side of his face. “I can’t sleep either.”

 

And it’s kind of funny considering this is what used to happen when they were young, too. Their father would disappear for a while leaving them to fend for themselves, and Dean would have to pick up the pieces of Sam that were left scattered around, while trying to keep himself stable enough to be depended upon.

 

“Do you think,” Sam swallows the lump in his throat, having trouble getting the words out. “Do you think that shifter killed dad?”

 

Dean swears Sam is thirteen again; his voice is small and sad, unafraid to ask for the guidance he needs from his big brother.

 

“No way in hell,” he answers after a moment. It takes him that much time to get the words out of his own throat; he needs to convince himself that they’re true. “Dad would never get killed by a douchebag shifter. Besides,” he starts to feel more confident in what he’s saying. “He trained us, didn’t he? And look, we’re still alive.”

 

Sam hums in agreement, turning over in bed, feeling slightly more at ease. “You’re right.”

 

 --------------------------------------------

 

If Castiel doesn’t visit them in the morning, it’s because Dean tells him not to. Not that Dean will ever tell Sam that.

 

“I’m surprised,” Sam says, sipping on the coffee he bought for him and Dean. “Cas hasn’t dropped in for a while.”

 

Dean chuckles, his mouth full of bacon. “You miss him?” He swallows to add more clearly. “You do, don’t you?”

 

“Don’t you?” Sam says dryly. “I mean, he’s your angel after all.” He’s smirking around the border of the cup, dodging the napkin that comes flying from where Dean is sitting on his bed.

 

“Shut the hell up,” Dean chokes out, shoving some more bacon into his mouth. “You’re the one who brought him up.”

 

That’s true, Sam thinks, but he won’t admit to that if he can help it. Dean likes shoving things into other people’s faces—and his own apparently—way too often already. Sam clears his throat, decidedly changing topics instead. “So—”

 

Dean rolls his eyes, dropping his fork; he knows where this is going. That’s why he told Castiel not to come for a while. Sam just loves his talks, or, as Dean prefers to call them, his chick-flick-intervention-couple’s-therapy-sessions. “What, Sammy?”

 

“Sam,” he says, without a moment’s thought. “My name is Sam, I’m in my late 20’s,” he crosses his arms. “Or did you forget?”

 

“I didn’t forget anything,” and he’s avoiding eye contact; he can’t deal with a bitch face so early in the day. “I like saying Sammy.”  _I liked little Sammy, too, where did he go? He was nicer._

 

“Oh,” Sam mumbles, taking another sip of coffee. Coffee is like the morning version of alcohol. He takes another long sip. Pause. “We need to talk.”

 

“I know,” Dean still hasn’t picked up his fork; watches the way his breakfast is getting cold and hard. “You said that before.”

 

“Our—uh—relationship,” he struggles finding the words, even that sounds weird. “I know it’s not like other brothers’.”

 

“No shit, Sammy—” Dean catches himself. “I mean Sam.” He beams up at his little brother. “What’s your point? Pretty sure we’re also cooler than most brothers.”

 

Sam frowns because Dean is getting them off track, as usual. “That’s not the point.”

 

“Okay, what’s the point then?” Dean stretches out his legs, putting his breakfast on the night stand. This feels like it could go on for a long time, and it’s only just beginning.

 

“You dreamt about me,” he declares as cool-headed as he can, mentally patting himself on the back. “I don’t know if you realize, but that wasn’t normal.”

 

Dean’s brow furrows because, first of all, he was _not_ expecting that, and secondly, who says he ever stopped? That might be a little more than what Sam needs to know for the moment, though. “I guess not. But you know what?” he needs to get back at Sam because that’s how their ‘relationship’ works, according to Dean. “You jerked me off in my sleep. So you’re not normal either.”

 

“It’s not a contest, Dean.” Sam rolls his eyes, but uncrosses his arms at least. “I just want to figure out what’s best for us.”

 

“What—” he searches for his words. “What do you wanna do, Sam?” And no matter what his brother says, he’ll respect that. He’ll have to try and keep his dreams, his urges, back because that’s how brothers are supposed to be. They’re not supposed to think about each other naked, or give (great) hand jobs, or anything incestuous like that. Dean grumbles when his cock twitches in his pants.

 

“Did you hear what I said, Dean?” Sam sounds serious, concerned. “I said,” his tone softens. “Weird or simple, or however this sounds:  you’re my brother, and I love you. And that’s what we’re gonna do, be brothers in our strange way.”

 

Dean laughs; that is the corniest, most unmanly shit he’s heard in weeks, and sometimes he ends up watching Hannah Montana at three in the morning when nothing’s on. “That’s,” and he can’t say hilarious, because his Sasquatch of a brother will sit on him, or worse, fart. “Okay. Fine.”

 

“That’s it? Fine?” Sam sighs, pushing his bangs out of his eyes. “Okay, whatever. I’m going to shower.”

 

He disappears behind the bathroom door, leaving it slightly ajar like he always does. And there goes the thread, that same one he felt tugging his heart before he met Casey, before Castiel, before Hell, before Meg even. And food be damned, because Sam is showering, humming some boring song (he has bad taste in music), and Dean is fighting desperately to stay planted on his bed.

 

Dean shovels the food into his mouth, not one to waste money, even on inexpensive breakfast. Plus, he hopes that it will distract him long enough to avoid slipping in the shower with Sam. His plan is a success, for the most part, if you don’t consider the fact that Dean is so turned on he doesn’t notice the water from the shower has stopped, and his fingers somehow found their way in his pants.

 

How does that expression go? _Adding fuel to the fire._ In this case, the fire is in Dean’s pants, and the fuel is his hand stroking languidly, ignoring his conscience’s hint of oncoming danger.

 

“Dean?” Sam asks, sounding so young again, so innocent. His towel hangs low on his waist, his hip bones jutting out harshly as he dries his hair off with another, smaller towel. “What are you doing?” His voice drops a few octaves, predatory and seductive-sounding.

 

“What does it look like I’m doi—” He can’t open his eyes, afraid of the look Sam might be wearing. It’s a cowardly thing to do, he’s aware. But he stops short, not sure of when Sam went from standing in the bathroom doorway to hovering over him, his hair dripping onto his neck. He cracks an eye open carefully. “Sammy?”

 

Sam leans down, the wet strands of hair tickling the side of Dean’s face. “I told you, it’s Sam.” His lips press against Dean’s, full and firm, and just linger there, the sensation being tested out.

 

Dean gives up on opening his eyes, letting them flutter shut. No one’s eyes are open during a kiss, that’s just common sense. His hands feel for the wet strands of hair, curling his fingers in them, learning the texture. As much as he wants to avoid anything girly, anything emotional, Sam just brings it out of him. Dean tugs Sam closer, bringing him to straddle his lap. The smell of flowery shampoo fills his nostrils from the soft strands of hair in his reach, and stifling heat, _desperation_ maybe, builds between them, making their lips quiver with the slightest nip or lick. Dean sighs, knowing this is a step towards his very own chick-flick.

 

Probably sensing the annoyance and self-loathing, suddenly Sam is kissing harder, drawing every sound he can from Dean’s parted lips, taking advantage of those moments to dart his tongue in like he’s fucking his mouth. Sam is definitely rougher than he expects; he’s grinding and kissing with a purpose. And that purpose is making everyone involved come in their pants before they even get them off.

 

Dean ignores that stubborn thread warning him to stop and rolls his hips in time with Sam’s, loving every second that it fans the fire they’ve been building all along. It’s a million times better than any of his dreams (even if he’s probably the ‘girl’ between the two of them, but that doesn’t matter, can’t matter, as long as he can dive further into Sammy).

 

Sam’s lips taste like soap, water, and a little like fresh sweat, but mostly like the coffee he just drank.  There’s something about tasting those things on Sam’s lips that makes him instantly harder, hotter. Maybe it’s the fact that he’s finally getting to act out his fantasy. Maybe it’s the fact that Sam only has a towel on, and once that’s off, the real show begins. Or maybe it’s the fact that, despite what his better judgment is saying, his body is convinced, beyond a doubt, that this is what he was meant to be doing from the get-go.

 

He pushes all those thoughts aside, fed up of his own rom-com mental images, and pulls Sam’s towel off, pleased with the sound that his brother makes at the overwhelming vulnerability. Dean has the power back—for now at least. It’s suddenly skin on cotton; Sam shivers, his fingers squeezing at Dean’s bicep in silent complaint of being the only one fully nude. Sam started it; he should deal with the consequences. Dean traps Sam’s lip between his teeth, bruising it and sucking it raw, carefully timing each slow grind to the graze of teeth.

 

“Dean,” he moans, his head lolling forward, his weight that much more on top of Dean. “Fuck, so—” he pushes Dean’s legs apart, lifting one up and wrapping it low on his waist. If they weren’t close enough before, they certainly are now—in all meanings of the word.

 

“Wait,” Dean breathes, letting go of Sam’s lip to reach between them, freeing his cock from the fabric. Sam, realizing what’s happening, tugs Dean’s pants down, the head of their cocks bumping into each other. “God, yes, Sam,” he babbles, fisting his hand further in the brown strands to thrust his tongue in time with his hips, reducing them both to nothing but moans.

 

“Dean,” he pants, shifting for both Dean’s legs to lean against the small of his back, his fingers digging in the layers of cotton, searching for a way to make Dean come undone just as he is. As his digits slip below one shirt, then another, he finds a nipple and pads over it gently.

 

“Fuck,” Dean arches into the touch, his cock sliding up the shaft of Sam’s, drawing a long, gravelly moan from their parted lips. “I can’t,” his hands settle on Sam’s back, his head turning to the side to avoid looking at Sam and the way he’s falling apart, too. It’s too much and too little all at once.

 

“Close,” growls Sam, nuzzling into Dean’s neck, tonguing the shell of his ear slowly. “Fuck, so hot,” he whimpers, hips thrusting like he’s fucking into Dean and not just against him, wafting in the smell of arousal and sweat in the room. He drags his teeth over the cartilage of Dean’s ear, biting down on the lobe.

 

“Sam, jesus, _fuck_ ,” he sucks in as much air as his lungs can take, one hand finding their cocks and jerking them mercilessly fast. “Yes, yes,” he moans, loving the way Sam’s hips rut so hard the bed creaks beneath them, threatening to give way if this goes on for much longer.

 

“Oh god, oh god..” Sam latches on to Dean’s neck, gnawing a perfect, vein-coloured circle as he comes. It splashes between their stomachs, burning like lava, and sticky like glue. But dean can’t help wanting to taste it.

 

His fingers let go of Sam’s cock gently, his fingers wrapping around his own fully, feeling the teeth at his neck more insistent than ever. Maybe he’s competing with the scar Castiel gave him on his arm. Sam hovers, pulling back a bit, his eyes dark with something that tells Dean he should come now or expect sudden death later.

 

Then Sam’s lips trail down his stomach, licking a line into his _own_ come, swallowing it like it’s habit, and finding Dean’s cock a moment later. His cheeks hollow out, sucking so hard Dean can’t even breathe, let alone speak, and his fingers tangle their way in Sam’s hair somehow, trapped in the mess of brown softness. His chest tightens, but not as much as his balls, and the pit in his stomach says he’s going to have an ulcer soon, but it all stops in a single flood of emotion when he’s trembling and stiff, climaxing down Sam’s throat, and it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

 

Sam licks his lips, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down as he enjoys the remnants of the come like it’s cotton candy or something equally pleasing. He kisses Dean and Dean kisses back with as much fervour because who cares about self-image at this point?

 

“You bitch,” are the first words he can formulate when his limbs start to work again, and he notices that the come on his stomach is spelt into the word ‘jerk’.

 

Sam laughs, his shoulders shaking with it, and causing tremors in the bed and Dean’s skin where he’s pressed. “Was wondering when you’d notice,” he looks up, sliding the guilty finger into his mouth slowly. Dean’s cock responds helplessly. “Tastes like pie,” he turns on his side, leaning his head on Dean’s shoulder. “I think I support that obsession now.”

 

And whatever Dean thought was the hottest thing before, this just replaced it, again.

“About damn time, Sammy,” he sighs when the eyes peering into his soul narrow at that. “I mean Sam.”

 

“You know what,” Sam licks his lips, dipping his finger in the mess that is quickly drying and bringing it up to his mouth in a way that is so pornographic it should be illegal. “I’ll let you call me Sammy when we’re in bed.”

 

Best idea all day.

 

 

\--------------------------------------------

 

Castiel pops in a few hours later, analyzing the situation and the people involved like it’s some sort of crime scene and his job is to piece everything together. In a way, that’s not completely false, considering neither of them want to repeat that whole conversation.

 

“Dean,” he says earnestly, as always. “Did you enjoy the sexual relations you had with your brother?”

 

Leave it to the angel to make a good thing bad. Not that incest is really something he would tell other people to participate in—unless their brother’s lips are soft like Sam’s, or their cock is as big, or they suck up come like a human vacuum... “Yeah, okay?” and he sounds strangely on the defensive, like an Angel of the Lord having gay sex with a human isn’t a sin in itself, too.

 

“I’m sorry,” his brow creases with the sincerity of his tone. “I did not mean it in any harmful way.”

 

There’s laughter across the room, and since it’s not Dean or Castiel, it has to be the all-too-smug, satiated, gargantuan man still lying on Dean’s bed. Sam hasn’t moved from the spot on Dean’s bed, save for rewrapping the towel around his hips. Though Castiel still figured out what happened anyway.

 

“Don’t worry, Cas,” Sam sits up, patting the spot next to him where Dean was (before he decided watching Sam play in the pool of liquid on his stomach would only lead to more sex and got up). “Dean’s just mad ‘cause I made him feel actual emotions,” he smirks, looking over at Dean who is using the bitch face for the first time to mock his annoying brother.

 

“Shut up,” Dean snaps, pointing at Castiel incredulously. “You’re actually gonna listen to him and sit next to him?” he throws up his hands in frustration jokingly. “Don’t blame me if you turn into a woman.”

 

“I believe that is physically impossible without some kind of surgery,” Castiel says calmly. “My vessel is male.”

 

Dean gestures to his stomach. “Inside, Cas, I mean inside.” He sighs, scowling at Sam. “Don’t make his feelings come out too. I like him the way he is. Stick up his ass and all.”

 

“I do not,” Castiel sighs, glancing at Sam who is visibly shaking with laughter. “Sam, what stick is he referring to?”

 

“Just ignore him, Cas,” Sam whispers, rubbing the angel’s back in slow circles. “That’s what I do.”

 

“Sammy,” he says on purpose, keeping in mind what Sam said to him earlier. “Prepare yourself for round two.”

 

Castiel barely has time to mouth the words when Dean lands ungracefully between them, throwing Sam’s towel onto the next bed. “Wait,” Sam whines, pulling the blanket out from underneath Dean’s heavier-than-humanly-possible body, using it to cover himself. It’s not fair that he’s, once again, the only one without clothing.

 

“You should have gotten dressed, Sherlock,” Dean snickers, nudging Castiel playfully. “Right?”

 

“I don’t understand,” he says honestly. “Are we going to do something to Sam?”

 

“More than something, Cas,” he says it teasingly, mostly, but there’s a hint of something darker, something more primal. And despite his best efforts, Castiel really wants to know what that is. He waits for the rest. “We are going to turn Sam into a woman.”

 

Castiel squints, looking over at Sam for answers, noticing the panicked look, his gaze returns to Dean. “I still don’t understand,” his shoulders droop.

 

“Follow my lead,” Dean yanks the blanket off, climbing on top of Sam to keep his hips down, and firmly against the mattress. “Okay Cas, you go behind him and hold his arms back.”

 

“O-okay, Dean,” He secures Sam’s arms with his own, intertwining their fingers, Sam’s back pressed to his chest. “But I don’t know why—”

 

“Just trust me,” Dean says, frowning slightly. “Why do you always have so much clothes on?”

 

“Oh,” Castiel mumbles, finally recognizing the situation he’s in. “One second then.” He moves away from Sam abruptly, causing the taller man to smack his head against the bedpost and yelp out an indignant ‘ow’. He fumbles with his coat and jacket, folding them and putting them on a nearby chair.

 

“Come on,” Dean adds impatiently. “We don’t have all day!”

 

“But it’s only 3 in the afternoon..” Cas begins, but stops when Sam and Dean both shoot him matching glares. “I understand.”

 

“He’s more flexible when he’s drunk,” Sam offers, leaning up to let Castiel scoot back behind him.

 

“I’d hope the fuck so,” Dean rasps out, spreading Sam’s legs slowly. “See this, Cas? This is Sam aroused only partially,” Castiel looks between Sam’s thighs and sees just that. But he doesn’t get the point. “And I’m already full-on hard. So you’re gonna have to get with the program.”

 

He nods; his back straightening as Sam looks up at him and winks. Castiel wonders if he should wink back, if that’s the correct, polite response, but Sam’s eyes flutter shut so quickly it would have been wasted effort on his behalf. Dean strokes fingers lazily up either of Sam’s thighs, and down to his knees, his tongue swirling tentatively at the head of Sam’s cock. Castiel feels his pants tighten, his hips suddenly feeling trapped beneath the weight of Sam’s back.

 

“Use him, Cas,” Dean breathes, his lips round and open to accommodate each thrust Sam is giving him. The moans are a welcome sound to Dean’s library of sounds he’ll replay when he’s jerking off.

 

“Use him?” Cas questions, but Sam’s right hand is already loosening its grip, snaking behind his back to find Castiel’s zipper and dragging it down. “Oh,” he hisses, Sam’s fingers cool and dry against his dampening erection.

 

“Yeah,” Dean hums, letting Sam slide the length of his cock further down his throat. “Like that Cas,” he twirls his tongue on the head of Sam’s cock each time he pulls back, drawing out a long grunt that shoots straight to his groin.

 

Castiel startles himself when he moans, his eyes snapping open. He has the perfect angle, he realizes, to see any and all flickers of emotion on Sam’s features, to see the slow curl of tongue and teeth that Dean is using to get his brother off, and to see the fingers working a surprisingly steady rhythm along his cock, coaxing noise after breathless noise out of him.

 

He’s still new to all this, still relatively unused to the ‘special’ attention. And before he can pull away, or stop Sam’s fingers, or at least warn them of his oncoming climax, it’s bursting out of him full force and hitting harshly against the culpable man’s back.

 

“Ah, Cas,” and his tone is still soft considering the smattering of ejaculate on his back. “Guess you couldn’t wait, huh?” His head lolls back, finding Castiel’s lips, nibbling on the bottom one to distract his body from the obscene suckling sounds Dean is producing between his legs. “Fuck, yes,” he breathes into Castiel’s mouth, instantly supercharging the angel’s cock back into business.

  
Dean slides off the length with a loud pop, propping onto an elbow. “How we doing, Cas?” His fingers wrap around Sam’s cock, holding it flat against his brother’s stomach, tonguing at the hairless sac below, pulling one ball at a time into his mouth gently.

 

Castiel can’t seem to find words while watching that. Dean stops, opting for slow strokes up and down Sam’s cock instead to avoid another premature ejaculation. His mind returning to a normal state with just simple arousal thrumming in his ears, he answers finally. “I am,” he kisses Sam’s jaw affectionately. “I am aroused again.”

 

“Good,” Sam murmurs, eyes dark with lust. “Dean, fuck” he bites down on his own lip, eyes clenched shut. “Stop stroking, too close.” His hips rock with each long, drawn out jerk of his cock. “I think your plan is working better on Castiel.”

 

Dean snorts, moving to the edge of the bed. “We’ll see,” he slides his pants and briefs down, dropping them on the floor unceremoniously. “C’mere, Cas,” he strokes along his cock slowly, using his pre-come to ease the way.

 

Castiel can’t even tear his eyes away from the sight; he knows what’s in store and it scares him partly. It scares him because of how much his body wants it, how much he wants to give up to Dean, how worried he is with his performance, but also because Sam will be watching. He obeys his charge nonetheless; giving in to Dean is still a flaw of his.

 

Sam leans forward, as Dean does, both men carefully dragging down Castiel’s pants and underwear like he’s a precious jewel, fragile to the touch—maybe because of earlier—and Sam slides under him when he’s on all fours in front of Dean.

 

“Ready, Cas?” Sam whispers, even though Dean should probably be the one asking, he’s too far gone to do so.

 

Castiel shudders when he feels strong hands smoothing over his ass, squeezing the cheeks lovingly. “I am, yes,” he moans, looking back at Dean. “Please, fuck me.” Somehow he’s always reduced to babbling and begging when it comes to the Winchesters.

 

“Fuck,” Dean licks his lips. “Don’t make me rush. Don’t wanna,” he strokes his index up and down the small circle of muscle he finds. “Hurt you,” and he’s shaking with the force of holding back.

 

“Sam,” Castiel murmurs. He’s dipping in close to lick a line up the entire length of the youngest man’s cock. “Tell him,” he moans, dragging his teeth over the head gently. “Tell him I am able to take it. I can heal.”

 

“Fuck, Cas,” he shivers, fisting his hands in Castiel’s hair. “No, not this time.” He lets his head fall against the bed, breathless. “Every time he says that…” Sam whispers, eyes clenched tightly shut. “Dean, I can’t take it.”

 

“That’s the goal.” Dean’s voice is deep with need, struggling to stay even. “Fuck, okay,” he inhales deeply. “Cas,” he pulls his face away from Sam’s cock, knowing the angel is preparing to swallow it down again. “You are going to fuck Sam.”

 

Castiel’s eyes widen considerably, darkening with the mere thought of it. “But I,” he swallows; his throat has suddenly gone hoarse and dry. “I might hurt him.”

 

“No, Cas,” Sam pulls Castiel in for a gentle kiss, wrapping his arms around him. The embrace doesn’t last more than a few seconds, but everything that needs to be conveyed, is, with that simple motion. “I trust you.”

 

Dean helps Sam to get more comfortable; he puts his legs low on Castiel’s waist, careful not to brush against any erections, feeling how tightly wound all three of them are, and strokes a finger sluggishly over Castiel’s entrance. Hissing at this, Castiel nearly falls on top of Sam, catching his weight at the last second.

 

Sam cups his face, his gaze warm and inviting. “Dean’ll start, Cas,” he kisses the angel, cooing sounds in the back of his throat, allowing the older man to relax into it.

 

He slides a finger into Castiel, swirling it inside, the tightness inching away after a few moments. “Good,” Dean whispers, his other hand stroking his back encouragingly. “More?”

 

“Yes,” he says quietly; Sam nods for Dean to continue when he notices Castiel can’t say it any louder. “Please, more,”

He says finally.

 

Dean prepares two more fingers, reaching down at his own cock and using the slickness there to coat his fingers. “Relax, Cas,” three fingers nudge at the tight entrance, sliding in almost without resistance. He’s much looser than a virgin, much less tight than normal men too. “Fuck,” Dean swears under his breath, digging in far enough to rub against Castiel’s prostate. “I can feel it.”

 

Sam smiles, watching Castiel unravel in front of him; he’s so close, too close to watch Castiel want it this bad, so he closes his eyes and settles for taking in the small sounds only he can enjoy instead. Castiel’s forehead rubs against his neck, his lips turning to trail a kisses in the crook, humming against his skin. “Sam, please.”

 

“Dean,” Sam breathes, beginning to stretch himself for Castiel’s turn. “He’s more than ready.”

 

Lathering his cock in saliva, he lines Castiel’s hips up with his cock, pressing in as slowly as he can. “Jesus Christ,” he mutters, holding his friend steady in front of him. “Fuck, I’ve been wanting this.”

 

Castiel abandons all inhibition, as he tends to do when Dean or Sam are involved, and grinds back onto the hard length, forcing the cock in further than Dean planned. “Yes, ah,” he pants; his lips search for Sam’s, and Sam is right there, steering his mouth in the right place, kissing him breathless.

 

“Cas, open your eyes,” Sam whispers, his fingers still loosening his muscle for Castiel. “I’m almost ready.” He moans, arching into the feel of Castiel’s chest against his, their lips ghosting over one another.

 

Dean is trembling with the yearning he has to just drive into Castiel like a god-forsaken truck. “Cas, fuck, don’t,” but this is of course the only time Castiel will defy you: when he wants to be fucked harder.

 

“Please,” Castiel arches, his hips pushing down onto the hard cock without a care in the world, without a care for what it’s doing to Dean, without worrying about how his body will feel tomorrow.

 

Finally, Dean can’t resist anymore. He’s thrusting frantically, hands firmly on either hip, fingers bruising and leaving red marks, his entire body in every shift of his hips forward, and once again when he drags Castiel back with him. It’s a brutal pace, but Castiel started it, asked for it, pleaded to have it, and here it is.

 

Castiel can’t breathe normally even when he tries, erratic breaths are all he can produce, and Sam sees that he has to hurry. He spits on his palm, using the next hard thrust to grab the base of Castiel’s cock and press it into his own entrance.

 

“Fuck,” Sam curses under his breath, legs around Castiel like he might fall if he doesn’t cling, like his life depends on it. Castiel is too far gone to even think of Enochian words, forget English ones. He soothes the burn inside Sam, and around his cock, with soft kisses to Sam’s forehead, gripping Sam’s leaking cock firmly, stroking from base to tip.

 

Dean won’t slow down, can’t; he’s too close to climax with the perfect tightness all around his cock and the added weight of Sam pulling him in. There’s no way he can stop. Castiel continues his long strokes on Sam’s cock, turning his head to catch Dean’s lips, dragging him in for a hungry kiss; he’s been needing it and it makes his cock throb inside of Sam.

 

He’s swearing in his head in every language he can remember, praising and cursing the day he met the Winchesters.

 

Sam’s body is obstinate, fighting against the intruder at first, but relaxing because it’s Castiel, it’s foreign and yet so familiar. Sam urges his body to cooperate; Castiel’s courage to go along with this is, quite apparently, fleeting. Dean, spotting the doubt in Castiel’s movements, rocks his hips in harder. The domino effect starts; Dean buries his cock in Castiel, deliberately pushing the angel to thrust into Sam, and the youngest man getting the hint, arches encouragingly, making the angle that much more unbelievable.

 

Being inside Castiel was one thing, but having this powerful creature, this man who, so clearly, wants you and fights in, stirs him up in the same way Dean can. Although it’s mildly uncomfortable, Sam isn’t paying attention to that because it’s Castiel, and they both crave this, and it’s scary and new, and perfect in all the ways that matter. When he notices the red mark—the one he’s always been jealous of—on his brother’s arm, egging him on, his mind shuts off and his animal instinct takes over.

 

One of Sam’s hands find Castiel’s on his cock, and show him the pace he wants; a much, much faster one. Dean tries to laugh at that, but can’t get his lungs to work, can’t find air, because Castiel is clenching his ass around his cock so deliciously. “Fuck, Cas,” Castiel’s chant of _ah’s and oh’s_ go straight to everyone’s pelvises.

 

“Gonna,” Sam blurts out, but the rest is long gone, just like his mind, when his stomach muscle contract and his hips shoot up into Castiel’s hand, coating both of them in his come.

 

Castiel’s head tells him to stop stroking, but he can’t, needs the distraction from the toned body pummeling into him mercilessly. Dean leans down, his weight against Castiel, and he snakes a hand around, fumbling with dress shirt buttons before giving up and just ripping the shirt open. “I hate your clothes,” he jokes, finding a nipple and tweaking it.

 

Dean feels the ripple of climax tumbling through Castiel before he sees it, and it’s beautiful. Castiel shudders, his entire body seizing up above Sam, his lips slightly parted, one hand holding on to Dean’s bicep, the other hidden beneath Sam’s dark locks. His come explodes like ribbons, like fucking confetti, all over Sam’s stomach, mixing in with the taller man’s own.

 

If that isn’t Sam making him think like a woman, then he must be losing his mind.

 

One stroke, two strokes, three maybe, and Dean is way beyond coherent, his cock impaling a limp Castiel for the last time, until white lights burst into view somewhere beyond his eyes, and he’s filling his friend up with everything that he’s been holding in over the years. And something about Castiel being there, and Sam being underneath, and all of them being spent, just feels right.

 

Before they can convince him otherwise, before they can even catch their breath, Castiel is rushing around the room picking up items of clothing and tissue to wipe everyone off with.

 

“Would you like me to dress you?” he offers, his voice rougher than usual.

 

Sam grunts, pulling Dean against him, pretending to hide from the ‘evil’ Castiel. “Why is he so energetic?”

 

Dean shrugs, used to it being like this when they had sex for the first time too. “Yeah, Cas,” he pokes Sam’s shoulder. “You guys, when you did the dirty, he didn’t dress you?”

 

Sam scoffs. “Hell no,” he tucks his face back in Dean’s neck; suddenly the lights seem too bright. “We cuddled until I passed out.”

 

Therein lies the proof that Sam makes everyone into a woman.

 

Dean sighs, waves a hand at Castiel. “Come to bed, rest with us,” he scans over what the angel is wearing and immediately regrets it. It must be programmed for men to be turned on by another person wearing nothing but an oversized white shirt.  “Lemme grope you s’more.” It’s supposed to be a joke, but his voice isn’t concealing his thoughts.

 

Sam chuckles while shifting over to the edge of the bed so Castiel can fit next to Dean. “You think that shirt with no buttons looks hot on him, don’t you?”

 

Castiel tilts his head, lying on his side to see both Sam and Dean. “Do you, Dean?”

 

Leave it to Sam to read into all the hints so well.

 

“No,” is all he bothers saying. Not like Sam can’t tell he’s lying anyway. And perhaps, even Castiel can tell the difference from knowing Dean so long. What’s the point? “Yes, and? You got a problem with it?”

 

Fitting his head in the space between Dean’s neck and shoulder, Castiel’s body goes limp, like he’s finally decided to stop trying to take care of everyone and just be selfish. “Thank you, Dean.” He clears his throat. “And Sam,” he sighs. “You always tend to surprise me.”

 

Dean won’t ever get used to these chick-flick moments. “Alright, enough,” he takes the tissues from Castiel’s hand. “Can’t stand being sticky like someone spilled superglue on me anymore.”

 

Sam laughs, pressed to his other side, one arm propped under his head. “Pass it when you’re done,” he looks over at Castiel briefly. “Or you can just clean us both off while you’re at it.”

 

Castiel blinks, his brow furrowing. “I can clean myself.”

 

They both laugh, probably longer than they should. Castiel ignores them and buttons up the bottom of his shirt, throwing the blanket on them, and squeezing in closer. Three people in a queen size bed is a tight fit, but it’s not impossible. Dean passes the tissue to Sam when he’s done and looks over at Castiel; his eyes are big like saucers, but he looks content, and most of all comfortable. When he watches the tissue get passed from Sam to Castiel, his eyes drift to Sam who raises a brow questioningly. “What?”

 

“Nothing,” Dean answers, in wonder.

 

Nothing is wrong. For once in his miserable, lonely life, he’s happy. The threads might have broken, he crossed a whole lot of lines, he can’t find his damn father (or maybe he’s dead), and maybe life’s not perfect, but he doesn’t care because this is how it’s meant to be; uncoordinated, weird, and messy, but fun and _complete_. And he wouldn’t trade Sam and Castiel for _anything_ in the world.

 

Castiel places two fingers to his temple, his elbow poking Dean’s side, and making him grumble in the process. Sam and Dean look over at the angel, questioningly.

 

“Dean,” he says, irritation slightly present in his voice. “Heaven requires you fulfill that favour—” Castiel isn’t sure how to handle the glares shooting at him in unison, but he has an idea of how to proceed. “I’ll tell them you need some time.”

 

“There ya go,” Dean answers encouragingly. “Starting to act like one of us already.”


End file.
